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LIBRARY < >1' 

C. C. COVERT. 


Glass h 302, _ 

Book__J=2_ 

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HaOB OfflB 


OF 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN; 

WITH MANY 

CHOICE ANECDOTES 

AND 

\DMIRABLE SAYINGS OF THIS GREAT MAN 

NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED BY ANY OF IIIS BIOGRAPHERS. 


BY M. Lu WEEMS, 

w 

AUTHOR OF THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON. 


“ Sage Franklin next arose in cheerful mien, 

And smil’d, unruffled, o’er the solemn scene; 
High on his locks of age a wreath was brac’d, 
Palm of all arts that e’er a mortal grac’d; 
Beneath him lay the sceptre kings had borne, 

And crowns and laurels from their temples torn.” 


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NEW YORK: 

HURST & CO., 


NASSAU STREET. 





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LIFE OF FRANKLIN. 




CHAPTER I. 

DR. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, president of tub 

AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL SOCIETY; FELLOW OF THE ROYAL 
SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH, LONDON AND PARIS; GOVERNOR OF 
THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA; AND MINISTER PLENIPOTEN¬ 
TIARY FROM THE UNITED STATES TO THE COURT OF FRANCE, 

was the son of an obscure tallow-chandler and soap-boiler, 
of Boston, where he was born on the 17th day of January, 
1706. 

Some men carry letters of recommendation in their looks, 
and some in their names. ’Tis the lot but of few to inherit 
both of these advantages. The hero of this work was one 
of that favoured number. As to his physiognomy, there 
was in it such an air of wisdom and philanthropy, and con¬ 
sequently such an expression of majesty and sweetness, as 
charms, even in the commonest pictures of him. And for 
Iiis name, every one acquainted with the old English history, 
must know, that Franklin stands for what we now mean by 
44 Gentleman,” or “ clever fellow.” 

In the days of Auld Lang Syne, their neighbours from 
the continent made a descent 44 on the fast anchored isle,” 
and compelled the hardy, red-ochred natives to buckle to 
their yoke. Among the victors were some regiments of 
Franks, who distinguished themselves by their valor, and 
still more by their politeness to the vanquished, and espe¬ 
cially to the females. By this amiable gallantry the Franks 
acquired such glory among the brave islanders, that when¬ 
ever any of their own people achieved any thing uncom¬ 
monly handsome, he was called, by way of compliment, a 
Franklin, i. e. a little Frank. As the living flame does 
not more naturally tend upwards than does every virtue to 
exalt its possessors, these little Franks were soon promoted 

be great men, such as justices of the peace, knights of the 



6 


THE LIFE OF 


shire, and other such names of high renown. Hence thosi 
pretty lines of the old poet Chaucer— 

“ This worthy Franklin wore a purse of silk 
Fix’d to his girdle, pure as morning milk; 

Knight of the shire; tiist justice of th’ assize, 

To help the poor, the doubtful to advise. 

In all employments, gen’rous just he prov’d ; 

Renown’d for courtesy ; by all belov’d.” 

But though*, according to Dr. Franklin’s own account of 
nis family, whose pedigree he looked into with great dili¬ 
gence while he was in England, it appears that they were 
all of the “well born or gentlemen in the best sense of the 
word; yet they did not deem it beneath them to continue the 
same useful courses which had at first conferred their titles. 
On the contrary, the ductor owns, and indeed glories in it, 
that for three hundred years the eldest son, or heir apparent 
in this family of old British gentlemen, \v r as invariably 
brought up a blacksmith. Moreover, it appears from the 
same indubitable authority, that the blacksmith succession 
was most religiously continued in the family down to the 
days of the doctor’s father. How it has gone on since that 
time I have never heard; but considering the salutary effects 
of such a fashion on the prosperity of a young republic, it 
were most devoutly to be wished that it is kept up: and that 
the family of one of the greatest men who ever lived in this 
or any other country, still display in their coat of arms, not 
the barren gules and garters of European folly, but those 
better ensigns of American wisdom*—the sledge-hammer 
and anvil. 


CHAPTER II. 


‘ Were I so tall to reach the pole, 

And grasp the ocean in my span, 

I must be measur’d by my soul; 

For ’tis the MIND that makes the man.” 

From the best accounts which I have been able to pick 
up, it would appear that a passion for learning had a long 
run in the family of the Franklins. Of the doctor’s three 
uncles, the elder, whose name was Thomas, though con 
scientiously brought up a blacksmith, and subsisting his 
family by the din and sweat of his anvil, was still a^great 
reader. Instead of wasting his leisure hours, as too many 
of the trade do, in tippling and tobacco, he acquired enough 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


7 


of the law to render himself a very useful and leading man 
among the people of Northampton, where his forefathers had 
lived in great comfort for three hundred years, on thirty 
acres of land. 

His uncle Benjamin, too, another old English gentleman 
of the right stamp, though a very hard-working man at the 
silk-dying trade, was equally devoted to the pleasures of the 
mind. He made it a rule whenever he lighted on a copy 
of verses that pleased him, to transcribe them into a large 
blank book which he kept for the purpose. In this way he 
collected two quarto volumes of poems, written in short 
hand of his own inventing. And, being a man of great 
piety, and fond of attending the best preachers, whose ser¬ 
mons he always took down, he collected in the course of his 
life, eight volumes of sermons in folio, besides near thirty 
in quarto and octavo, and all in the aforesaid shorthand! 
x\stonishing proof, what a banquet of elegant pleasures even 
a poor mechanic may enjoy, who begins early to read and 
think! J Tis true, he was a long time about it. His piety 
afforded him a constant cheerfulness. And deriving from 
the same source a regular temperance, he attained to a great 
age. In his seventy-third year, still fresh and strong, he 
left his native country, and came over to America, to see 
his younger brother Josias, between whom and himself there 
nad always subsisted a more than ordinary friendship. On 
his arrival in Boston, he was received with unbounded joy 
by Josias, who pressed him to spend the residue of his days 
in his family. To this proposition the old gentleman readily 
consented; and the more so as he was then a widower, and 
his children, all married oft’, had left him. He had the 
honor to give his name, and to stand godfather to our little 
nero, for whom, on account of his vivacity and fondness for 
learning, he conceived an extraordinary affection. And 
Ben always took a great delight in talking of this uncle. 
Nor was it to be wondered at; for he was an old man who 
wore his religion very much to win young people—a pleasant 
countenance—a sweet speech—and a fund of anecdotes 
always entertaining, and generally carrying some good moral 
in the tail of them. His grandfather before him must have 
been a man of rare humour, as appears from a world of droll 
stories which uncle Benjamin used to tell after him, and 
which his New England descendants to this day are wont to 
repeat with great glee. I must let the reader hear one oi 
two of them. They will amuse him, by showing what strange 


8 


THE LIFE OF 


things were done in days of yore by kings and priests ui 
the land of our venerable forefathers. 

It was his grandfather’s fortune to live in the reign of 
Queen Mary, whom her friends called holy Mary, but her 
enemies bloody Mary. In the grand struggle for power be¬ 
tween those humble followers of the cross, the catholics and 
the protestants, the former gained the victory, for which ‘Te 
Deums’ in abundance were sung throughout the land. And 
having been sadly rib-roasted by the protestants when in 
power, they determined, like good Christians, now that the 
tables were turned, to try on them the virtues of fire and 
faggot. The Franklin family having ever been sturdy pro¬ 
testants, began now to be in great tribulation. u What 
shall we do to save our Bible?” was the question. After 
serious consultation in a family caucus, it was resolved to 
hide it in the close-stool ; which was accordingly done, by 
fastening it, open, on the under side of the lid by twine 
threads drawn strongly across the leaves. When the grand¬ 
father read to the family, he turned up the aforesaid lid on 
his knees, passing the leaves of his Bible, as he read, from 
one side to the other. One of the children was carefully 
stationed at the door, to give notice if he saw the priest, or 
any of his frowning tribe, draw near. In that event, the lid 
with the Bible lashed beneath it, was instantly clapped down 
again on its old place. 

These things may appear strange to us, who live under a 
wise republic, which will not suffer the black gowns of one 
church to persecute those of another. But they were com¬ 
mon in those dark and dismal days, when the clergy thought 
more of creeds than of Christ, and of learning Latin than 
of learning love. Queen Mary was one of this gnostic ge¬ 
neration, ^who place their religion in the head , though Christ 
places it m the heart,) and finding it much easier to her 
unloving spirit, to burn human beings called heretics, than 
to mortify her own lust of popularity, she suffered her catho¬ 
lic to fly upon and worry her protestant subjects at a shame¬ 
ful rate. Good old uncle Benjamin use 4 to divert his friends 
with another story, which happened i the family of his own 
aunt, who kept an inn at Eaton, Nortnamptonshire. 

A most violent priest, of the name of Asquith, who 
thought, like Saul, that he should be doing “ God service ” 
by killing the heretics, had obtained letters patent from 
queen Mary against those people in the county of War¬ 
wick. On his way he called to dine at Eaton, where he was 


Ull. FRANKLIN. 


9 


quickly waited on by the mayor, a strong catholic, to ask 
how the good ivork went on. Asquith, leaping to his sad¬ 
dle-bags, drew forth a little box, that contained his commis¬ 
sion, which lie flourished before the mayor, exclaiming with 
high glee, 44 Jiyt! there’s that that will scorch the rogues l” 
Old Mrs. Franklin, under the rose a sturdy protestant, over¬ 
hearing this, was exceedingly troubled; and watching her 
opportunity when the priest had stepped out with the mayor, 
slipped the commission out of the box, and put in its place 
a pack of cards, wrapped in the same paper. The priest 
returning in haste, and suspecting no trick, huddled up his 
box, and posted off for Coventry. A grand council of the 
saints was speedily convoked -to meet him. He arose, and 
having with great vehemence delivered a set speech against 
the heretics, threw his commission on the table for the secre¬ 
tary to read aloud. With the eyes of the whole council on 
nim, the eager^secretary opened the package, when in place 
of the flaming commission, behold a pack of cards with the 
knave of clubs turned uppermost ! A sudden stupefaction 
seized the spectators. In silence they stared at the priest 
and stared at one another. Some looking as though they 
suspected treachery: others as dreading a judgment in the 
case. Soon as the dumb-founded priest could recover 
speech, he swore by the Holy Mary, that he once had a 
commission; that he had received it from the queen’s own 
hand. And lie also swore that he would get another com¬ 
mission. Accordingly he hurried back to London, and having 
procured another, set oft’ again for Coventry. But alas! 
before he got down, poor queen Mary had turned the cor 
ner, and the protestants under Elizabeth got the rule again. 
Having nothing now to dread, our quizzing old hostess, 
Mrs. Franklin, came out with the knavish trick she had played 
the priest, which so pleased the protestants of Coventry 
that they presented her a piece of plate, that cost fifty pounds 
sterling, equal, as money now goes, to a thousand dollars. 

From an affair which soon after this took place there, it 
appears that Coventry, however famous for saints, had no 
great cause to brag of her poets.—When queen Elizabeth, to 
gratify her subjects, made the tour of her island, she passed 
through Coventry. The mayor, aldermen, and company 
hearing of her approach, went out in great state to meet her. 
The queen being notified that they wished to address her, 
made a full stop right opposite to a stage erected for the 
purpose, and covered with embroidered cloth, from which a 


10 


THE LIFE OF 


ready orator, after much bowing and arms full extended, 
made this wondrous speech— 44 We men of Coventry are 
glad to see your royal highness—Lord how fair you be! 55 

To this the maiden queen, equal famed for fat and fun, 
rising in her carriage, and waving her lily white hand, made 
this prompt reply— 44 Our royal highness is glad to see you 
men of Coventry—Lord what Fools you be!” 


—•>►►© © ©««<•— 


CHAPTER III. 

Our hero , little Ben , coming on the carpet—Put to school 
very young—Learns prodigiously—Taken home and set 
to candle-making—Curious capers , all proclaiming 44 the 
Achilles in petticoats. ” 

• 

Dr. Franklin’s father married early in his own country, 
and would probably have lived and died there, but for the 
persecutions against his friends the Presbyterians, which so 
disgusted him, that he came over to New England, and set¬ 
tled in Boston about the year 1682. He brought with him 
his English wife and three children. By the same wife he 
had four children more in America; and ten others after¬ 
wards by an American wife. The doctor speaks with plea¬ 
sure of having seen thirteen sitting together very lovingly at 
his father’s table, and all married. Our little hero, who was 
the fifteenth child, and last of the sons, was born at Boston 
the 17th day of January, 1706, old style. 

That famous Italian proverb, 44 The Devil tempts every 
man , but the Idler tempts the Devil ,” was a favourite canto 
with wise old Josias; for which reason, soon as their little 
lips could well lisp letters and syllables, he had them all to 
school. 

Nor was this the only instance with regard to them, 
wherein good Josias 44 sham’d the Devil ;” for as soon as 
their education was finished, they were put to useful trades. 
Thus no leisure was allowed for bad company and habits. 
Tuttle Ben, neatly clad and comb’d, was pack’d off to school 
with the rest; and as would seem, at a very early age, for 
he says himself that, 44 he could not recollect any time in his 
life when he did not know how to read,” whence we may 
infer that he hardly ever knew any thing more of childhood 
than its innocency and playfulness. At the age of eight, he 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


1J 

f^as sent to a grammar school, where he made such a figure 
in learning, that his good old father set him down at once 
for the church, and used constantly to call him his u little chap - 
tain.” He was confirmed in this design, not only by the ex¬ 
traordinary readiness with which he learned, but also by the 
praises of his friends, who all agreed that he woul4 certainly 
one day or other become a mighty scholar. His uncle Ben¬ 
jamin too, greatly approved the idea of making a preacher 
of him: and by way of encouragement, promised to him all 
his volumes of sermons, written, as before said, in his own 
short hand. 

This his rapid progress in learning he ascribed very much 
to an amiable teacher who used gentle means only, to en¬ 
courage his scholars, and make them fond of their books. 

But in the midst of this gay career in his learning, when 
in the course of the first year only, he had risen from the 
middle of his class to the head of it; thence to the class im¬ 
mediately above it; and was rapidly overtaking the third 
class, he was taken from school! His father having a large 
family, with but a small income, and thinking himself unable 
consistently with what he owed the rest of his children, to 
give him a collegiate education, took Ben home to assist him 
in Ins own humble occupation, which was that of a soap-boiler 
and tallow-chandler; a trade he had taken up of his own 
head after settling in Boston; his original one of a dyer being 
in too little request to maintain his family. 

I have never heard how Ben took this sudden reverse in 
his prospects. No doubt it put his little stock of philosophy 
to the stretch. To have seen himself, one day, on the high 
road to literary fame, flying from class to class, the admira¬ 
tion and envy of a numerous school; and the next day, to have 
found himself in a filthy soap-shop; clad in a greasy apron, 
twisting cotton wicks!—and in place of snuffing the sacred 
lamps of the Muses, to be bending over pots of fetid tallow, 
dipping and moulding candles for the dirty cook wenches! 
Oh, it must have seem’d a sad falling off! Indeed, it ap¬ 
pears from his own account that he was so disgusted with 
it that he had serious thoughts of going to sea. But his fa¬ 
ther objecting to it, and Ben having virtue enough to be du¬ 
tiful, the notion was given up for that time. But the am 
bition which had made him the first at his school, and which 
now would have hurried him to sea, was not to be extin¬ 
guished. Though diverted from its favourite course, it still 
burned for distinction, and rendered him the leader of the 


12 


THE LIFE OF 


juvenile band in every enterprize where danger was to b<* 
confronted, or glory to be won. In the neighbouring mill¬ 
pond he was the foremost to lead the boys to plunge and 
swim; thus teaching them an early mastery over that dan¬ 
gerous element. And when the ticklish mill-boat was launch¬ 
ing from the shore laden with his timid playmates, the pad- 
die that served as rudder, was always put into his hands, as 
the fittest to steer her course over the dark waters of the 
pond. This ascendancy which nature had given him over 
the companions of his youth, was not always so well used as 
it might have been. He honestly confesses that, once at 
least, he made such an unlucky use of it as drew them into 
a scrape that cost them dear. Their favourite fishing shore 
on that pond was, it seems, very miry. To remedy so 
great an inconvenience he proposed to the boys to make a 
wharf. Their assent was quickly obtained: but what shall we 
make it of? was the question. Ben pointed their attention 
to a heap of stones, hard by, of which certain honest ma¬ 
sons were building a house. The proposition was hailed by 
the boys, as a grand discovery; and soon as night had spread 
her dark curtains around them, they fell to work with the 
activity of young beavers, and by midnight had completed 
their wharf. The next morning the masons came to work, 
but, behold! not a stone was to be found! The young rogues, 
however, detected by the track of their feet in the mud, 
were quickly summoned before their parents, who not being 
so partial to Ben as they had been, chastised their folly with 
a severe flogging. Good old Josias pursued a different 
course with his son. To deter him from such an act in fu¬ 
ture, he endeavoured to reason him into a sense of its im¬ 
morality. Ben, on the other hand, just fresh and confident 
from his school, took the field of argument against his fa¬ 
ther, and smartly attempted to defend what he had done, on 
the principle of its utility. But the old gentleman, who was a 
great adept in moral philosophy, calmly observed to him, 
that if one boy were to make use of this plea to take away 
his fellow’s goods, another might; and thus contests would 
arise, filling the world with blood and murder without end. 
Convinced, in this simple way, of the fatal consequences of 
“ doing evil that good may come , ” Ben let drop the weapons of 
his rebellion, and candidly agreed with his father that what 
was not strictly honest could never be truly useful. This dis¬ 
covery he made at the tender age of nine. Some never make 
't in the course of their lives. The grand angler, Satan, 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


13 


throws out. his bait of immediate gain; and they, like silly 
Jacks, snap af it at once; and in the moment of running off, 
fancy they have got a delicous morsel. But alas! the fatal hook 
soon convinces them of their mistake, though sometimes too 
late. . And then the lamentation of the prophet serves as 
the epilogue of their tragedy— 46 9 Twas honey in the mouthy 
but gall in the bowels .” 




CHAPTER IV. 

* 

Picture of a wise father—To which is added a famous rt 
ceipt for health and long life. 

The reader must already have discovered that Ben wax. 
uncommonly blest in a father. Indeed from the portrait ol 
him drawn by this grateful son, full fifty years afterwards, ' 
lie must have been an enviable old man. 

As to his person, though that is but of minor consideration 
in a rational creature—1 say, as to his person, it was of 
the right standard, i. e. medium size and finely formed— 
his complexion fair and ruddy—black, intelligent eyes—and 
an air uncommonly graceful and spirited. In respect of 
mind , which is the true jewel of our nature, he was a man 
of the purest piety and morals, and consequently cheerful 
and amiable in a high degree. Added to this, lie possessed 
a considerable taste for the fine arts, particularly drawing 
and music; and having a voice remarkably sonorous and 
sweet, whenever he sung a hymn accompanied with his vio¬ 
lin, which he usually did at the close of his day’s labours, 
it was delightful to hear him. He possessed also an extra¬ 
ordinary sagacity in things relating both to public and pri¬ 
vate life, insomuch that not only individuals were constant¬ 
ly consulting him about their affairs, and calling him in as an 
arbiter in their disputes; but even the leading men of Bos¬ 
ton would often come and ask his advice in their most im¬ 
portant concerns, as well of the town as of the church. 

For his slender means he was a man of extraordinary hos¬ 
pitality, which caused his friends to wonder how he made 
out to entertain so many. But whenever this was mentioned 
to him, he used to laugh and say, that the world was good 
matured and gave him credit for much more than he de- 

2 


14 


THE LIFE OF 


served; for that, in fact, others entertained ten times as 
many as he did. By this, ’tis thought he alluded to the os 
tentatious practice common with some, of pointing theii 
hungry visitant to their grand buildings, and boasting how 
many thousands this or that bauble cost; as if their ridicu¬ 
lous vanity would pass with them for a good dinner. For 
his part, he said, he preferred setting before his visitors a 
plenty of wholesome fare, with a hearty welcome. Though 
to do this he was fain to work hard, and content himself 
with a small house and plain furniture. But it was always 
nis opinion that a little laid out in this way, went farther 
both with God and man too, than great treasures lavished on 
pride and ostentation. 

But though he delighted in hospitality as a great virtue, 
yet he always made choice of such friends at his table as 
were fond of rational conversation. And he took great care 
to introduce such topics as w r ould, in a pleasant manner, 
lead to ideas useful to his family, both iii temporal and 
eternal things. As to the dishes that were served up, he 
never talked of them; never discussed whether they were 
well or ill dressed; of a good or bad flavour, high seasoned or 
otherwise. 

For this manly kind of education at his table, Dr. Frank¬ 
lin always spoke as under great obligations to his father’s 
judgment and taste. Thus accustomed, from infancy, to 
a generous inattention to the palate, he became so perfectly 
indifferent about what was set before him, that he hardly 
ever remembered, ten minutes after dinner, what he had 
dined on. In travelling, particularly, he found his account 
in this. For while those who had been more nice in their 
diet could enjoy nothing they met with; this one growling 
over the daintiest breakfast of new laid eggs and toast floated 
in butter, because his coffee was not half strong enough !— 
that wondering what people can mean by serving up a round 
of beef when they have no mustard !—and a third cursing 
like a trooper, though the finest rock-fish or sheep's-head be 
smoking on the table—because there is no walnut pickle or 
ketchup! He for his part, happily engaged in a pleasanl 
train of thinking or conversation, never attended to such 
trifles, but dined heartily on whatever was set before him. 
In short, there is no greater kindness that a young man can 
do himself than to learn the art of feasting on fish, flesh, 01 
fowl as they come, without ever troubling his head about 
any other sauce than what the rich hand of nature has given* 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


15 


»et him but bring to these dishes that good appetite which 
always springs from exercise and cheerfulness, and he will 
be an epicure indeed. 

He would often repeat in the company of young people, 
the following anecdote which he had picked up some where 
or other in his extensive reading. 44 A wealthy citizen of 
Athens, who had nearly ruined his constitution by gluttony 
and sloth, was advised by Hippocrates to visit a certain 
medicinal spring in Sparta; not that Hippocrates believed 
that spring to be better than some nearer home; but exercise 
was the object— 44 Visit the springs of Sparta said thfc 
great physician. As the young debauchee, pale and bloated, 
travelled among the simple and hardy Spartans, he called 
one day at the house of a countryman on the road to gev 
something to eat. A young woman was just serving up din¬ 
ner—a nice barn-door fowl boiled with a piece of fat bacon. 
“You have got rather a plain dinner there madam,” growleO 
the Athenian. 44 Yes, sir,” replied the young woman blush¬ 
ing, 66 but my husband will be here directly, and he always 
brings the sauce with him.” Presently the young husband 
stepped in, and after welcoming his guest, invited him to 
dinner. 44 1 can’t dream of dining, sir, without sauce,” said 
the Athenian, 44 and your wife promised you would bring 
it.” 44 O, sir, my wife is a wit,” cried the Spartan; 44 she 
only meant the good appetite which I always bring with me 
from the barn , tv here I have been threshing . ” 

And here I beg leave to wind up this chapter with the 
following beautiful lines from Dryden, which I trust my 
young reader will commit to memory. They may save him 
many a sick stomach and headach, besides many a good 
dollar in doctor’s fees. 

“The first physicians by debauch were made; 

Excess began and sloth sustains the trade. 

By chace, our long liv’d fathers earn’d their bread,' 

Toil strung their nerves and purified their blood: 

But we, their sons, a pamper’d race of men, 

Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten 
Better hunt in fields for health unbought, 

Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. 

The wise for health on exercise depend: 

God never made his works for man to mend.'* 


16 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER V. 

Ben continued with his father, assisting him in his humble 
toils, till his twelfth year; and had he possessed a mind less 
active might have remained a candle-maker all the days of 
his life. But born to diffuse a light beyond that of tallow 
or spermaceti, he could never reconcile himself to this in¬ 
ferior employment, and in spite of his wishes to conceal it 
from his father, discontent would still lower on his brow, 
and the half-suppressed sigh steal in secret from his bosom. 

With equal grief his father beheld the deep-seated dis¬ 
quietude of his son. He loved all his children; but he 
loved this young one above all the rest. Ben was the 
child of his old age. The smile that dimpled his tender 
cheeks reminded him of his mother when he first saw 
her, lovely in the rosy freshness of youth. And then 
his intellect was so far beyond his years; his questions 
so shrewd; so strong in reasoning; so witty in remark, that 
his father would often forget his violin of nights for the 
higher pleasure of holding an argument with him. This was 
a «reat trial to his sisters, who would often intreat their mo- 
ther to make Ben hold his tongue, that their father might 
take down his fiddle, and play and sing hymns with them: 
for they took after him in his passion for music, and sung 
divinely. No wonder that such a child should be dear to 
such a father. Indeed old Josias’ affection for Ben was so 
intimately interwoven with every fibre of his heart, that he 
could not bear the idea of separation from him; and various 
were the stratagems which he employed to keep this dear 
child at home. One while, to frighten his youthful fancy from 
the sea, for that was the old man’s dread, he would paint 
the horrors of the watery world, where the maddening bil¬ 
lows, lashed into mountains by the storm, would lift the 
trembling ship to the skies; then hurl her down, headlong 
plunging into the yawning gulphs, never to rise again. At an¬ 
other time he would describe the wearisomeness of beating the 
gloomy w'ave for joyless months, pent up in a small ship, with 
no prospects but barren sea and skies—no smells but tar and 
bilge water—no society but men of uncultivated minds, and 
their constant conversation nothing but ribaldry and oaths. 
And then again he would take him to visit the masons, 
coopers, joiners, and other mechanics, at work: in hopes that 
his genius might be caught, and a stop nut to his passion for 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


17 


wandering. But greatly to his sorrow, none of these things 
held out the attractions that his son seemed to want. His 
visits among these tradesmen were not, however, without 
their advantage. He caught from them, as he somewhere 
says, such an insight into mechanic arts and the use of tools, 
as enabled him afterwards when there was no artist at hand, 
to make for himself suitable machines for the illustration of 
his philosophical experiments. 

But it was not long before this obstinate dislike of Ben’s to 
all ordinary pursuits was found out; it was found out by his 
mother. 44 Bless me,” said she one night toiler husband, as 
he lay sleepless and sighing on his son’s account, 44 why do 
we make ourselves so unhappy about Ben for fear he should 
go to sea! let him but go to school r , and I’ll engage we hear 
no more about his running to sea. Don’t you see the child 
is never happy but when he has a book in his hand ? Othei 
boys when they get a little money never think of any thing 
better to lay it out on than their backs or their bellies; but 
he, poor fellow, the moment that he gets a shilling, runs and 
gives it for a book; and then, you know, there is no getting 
him to his meals until he has read it through, and told us alt 
about it.” 

Good old Josias listened very devoutly to his wife, while 
she uttered this oration on his youngest son. Then with 
looks as of a heart suddenly relieved from a heavy burden, 
and his eyes lifted to heaven, he fervently exclaimed— 44 0 
that my son, even my little son Benjamin, may live before 
God, and that the days of his usefulness and glory may be 
many!” 

How far the effectual fervent prayer of this righteous fa¬ 
ther found acceptance in heaven, the reader will find perhaps 
by the time he has gone through our little book. 




CHAPTER VI. 

Ben taken from school , turns his own teacher—History 
of the books which he first read—Is bound to the printing 
trade . 

At a learned table in Paris, where Dr. Franklin happen¬ 
ed to dine, it was asked by the abbe Raynal, What descrip 
tion of men most deserves pity ? 


18 


THE LIFE OF 


Some mentioned one character, and some another. W hen 
ft came to Franklin’s turn, he replied, A lonesome man in a 
rainy day , who does not know how to read. 

As every thing is interesting that relates to one who made 
such a figure in the world, it may gratify our readers to be 
told what were the books that first regaled the youthful aj>- 
petite of the great Dr. Franklin. The state of literature in 
Boston at that time, being like himself, only in its infancy, 
it is not to be supposed that Ben had any very great choice of 
books. Books, however,there always were in Boston.* Among 
these was Bunyan’s Voyages, which appears to have been 
the first he ever read, and of which he speaks with great 
pleasure. But there is reason to fear that Bunyan did no 
good: for, as it was the reading of the life of Alexander the 
Great that first set Charles the Twelfth in such a fever to 
be running over the world killing every body he met; so, in 
all probability, it was Bunyan’s Voyages that fired Ben’s 
fancy with that passion for travelling, which gave his father 
so much uneasiness. Having read over old Bunyan so often 
as to have him almost by heart, Ben added a little boot, and 
made a swap of him for Burton's Historical Miscellanies. 
This, consisting of forty or fifty volumes, held him a good 
long tug: for he had no time to read but on Sundays, and 
early in the morning or late at night. After this he fell 
upon his father’s library. This being made up principally 
of old puritanical divinity, would to most boys have ap¬ 
peared like the pillars of Hercules to travellers of old—a 
bound not to be passed. But so keen was Ben’s appetite 
for any thing in the shape of a book, that he fell upon it with 
his usual voracity, and soon devoured every thing in it, 
especially of the lighter sort. Seeing a little bundle of 
something crammed away very snugly upon an upper shelf, 
his curiosity led him to take it down: and lo! what should 
it be but “ Plutarch's Lives." Ben was a stranger to the 
work; but the title alone was enough for him; he instantly 
gave it one reading; and then a second, and a third, and so on 
until he had almost committed it to memory; and to his dy¬ 
ing day he never mentioned the name of Plutarch without 
cKnowledging how much pleasure and profit he had derived 
from that divine old writer. And there was another book, 
by Defoe, a small affair, entitled “ An Essay on Projects, y ' 
to which he pays the very high compliment of saying, tha 1 


* You never find presbyterians without books. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


19 


'‘from it he received impassions which influenced some oj 
the principal events of his life.” 

Happy now to find that books had the charm to keep his 
darling boy at home, and thinking that if he were put into a 
printing office he would be sure to get books enough, his fa¬ 
ther determined to make a printer of him, though he already 
had a son in that business. Exactly to his wishes, that sen, 
whose name was James, had just returned from London 
with a new press and types. Accordingly, without loss of 
time, Ben, now in his twelfth year, was bound apprentice 
to him. By the indentures Ben was to serve his brother till 
twenty-one, i. e. nine full years, without receiving one 
penny of wages save for the last twelve months! How a 
man pretending to religion could reconcile it to himself tc 
make so hard a bargain with a younger brother, is strange. 
But perhaps it was permitted of God, that Ben should learn 
his ideas of oppression, not from reading but from suffering. 
The deliverers of mankind have all been made perfect 
through suffering. And to the galling sense of this villanous 
oppression, which never ceased to rankle on the mind of 
Franklin, the American people owe much of that spirited 
resistance to British injustice, which eventuated in their 
liberties. But Master James had no great cause to boast of 
this selfish treatment of his younger brother Benjamin; for 
the old adage “foul play never thrives,” was hardly ever 
more remarkably illustrated than in this affair, as the reader 
will in due season be brought to understand. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Ben in clover—Turns a Rhymer—Makes a prodigious noise 

in Boston—Bit by the Poetic Tarantula—Luckily cured 

bp his father. 

Ben is now happy. He is placed by the side of the press, 
the very mint and coining place of his beloved books; and 
animated by that delight which he takes in his business, he 
makes a. proficiency equally surprising and profitable to his 
brother. The field of his reading too is now greatly enlarge*.. 
From the booksellers’ boys he makes shift, every now aj d 
then, to borrow a book, which he never fails to return m 


2b 


THE LIFE OF 


the promised time: though to accomplish this was ofter 
obliged to sit up till midnight, reading by his bed side, that 
lie might be as good as his word. 

Such an extraordinary passion for learning soon com¬ 
mended him to the notice of his neighbours, among whom 
was an ingenious young man, a tradesman, named Matthew 
Adams, who invited him to his house, showed him all his 
books, and offered to lend him any that he wished to read. 

About this time, which was somewhere in his thirteenth 
year, Ben took it into his head that he could write poetry: 
and actually composed several little pieces. These, after some 
hesitation, he showed to his brother, who pronounced them 
excellent; and thinking that money might be made by Ben’s 
poetry, pressed him to cultivate his wonderful talent , as 
he called it; and even gave him a couple of subjects to write 
on. The one, which was to be called the Light-house 
Tragedy, was to narrate the late shipwreck of a sea cap¬ 
tain and his two daughters: and the other was to be a sai¬ 
lor’s song on the noted pirate Blackbeard, who had been 
recently killed on the coast of North Carolina, Dy Captain 
Maynard, of a British sloop of war. 

Ben accordingly fell to work, and after burning out seve¬ 
ral candles, for his brother could not afford to let him write 
poetry by daylight, he produced his two poems. His bro¬ 
ther extolled them to the skies, and in all haste had them 
put to the type and struck off; to expedite matters, fast as 
the sheets could be snatched from the press, all hands were 
set to work, folding and stitching them ready for market; 
while nothing was to be heard throughout the office but con¬ 
stant calls on the boys at press— 44 more sheets ho ! more 
Light-house tragedy : more Blackbeard /” But who can tell 
what Ben felt when he saw his brother and all his journey¬ 
men in such a bustle on his account—and when he saw, 
wherever he cast his eyes, the splendid trophies of his ge¬ 
nius scattered on the floor and tables; some in common pa¬ 
per for the multitude; and others in snow-white foolscap, 
for presents to the great people, such as 44 His excellency 

THE GOVERNOR.”- 44 The HON. THE SECRETARY OF STATE.”- 

44 The Worshipful the mayor.” — 44 The aldermen, and 
gentlemen of the council.” — 44 The reverend the clergy , 
&c.” Ben could never tire of gazing at them; and as he 
gazed, his heart would leap for joy *-— 44 O you precious little 
verses ,” he would say to himself, 44 Ye first warblings of my 
youthful harp ' Pll soon have you abroad\ delighting every 


DR. FRANKLIN 


'll 

company , and filling all mouths with my name !” According¬ 
ly, his two poems being ready, Ben, who had been both poet 
and printer, with a basket full of each on his arm, set out in 
high spirits to sell them through the town, which he did by sing¬ 
ing out as he went, after the manner of the London cries— 

“Choice Poetry! Choice Po-e-try ! 

Come BUY my choice Po-e-try!” 

The people of Boston having never heard any such cry 
as that before, were prodigiously at a loss to know what he 
was selling. But still Ben went on singing out as before, 

“Choice Poetry! Choice Poetry! 

Come, buy my choice Poetry!” 

I wonder now, said one with a stare, if it is not poultny 
that that little boy is singing out so stoutly yonder. 

0 no, I guess not, said a second. 

Well then, cried a third, I vow but it must be pastry . 

At length Ben was called up and interrogated. 

44 Pray , my little man , and what’s that that you are crying, 
there so bravely?” 

Ben told them it was poetry. 

44 O! — aye! poetry!” said they; 44 poetry ! that’s a sort of 
something or other in metre—like the old version , is n’t it ?” 

44 O yes , to be sure” said they all, 44 it must be like the 
old version , if it is poetry;” and thereupon they stared at 
him, marvelling hugely that a 44 little curly headed boy like 
him should be selling such a wonderful thing!” This made 
Ben hug himself still more on account of his poetry. 

I have never been able to get a sight of the ballad of the 
Light-house Tragedy, which must no doubt have been a 
great curiosity: but the sailor’s song on Blackbeard runs 
thus— 

“ Come all you jolly sailors, 

You all so stout and brave; 

Come hearken and Til toll you 
What happen’d on the wave. 

Oh ! ’tis of that bloody Blackbeard 
I’m going now for to tell; 

And as how by gallant Maynard 
He soon was sent to hell— 

With a down, down, down derry down.” 

The reader will, I suppose, agree with Ben in his criti¬ 
cism, many years afterwards, on this poetry, that it was 
44 wretched stuff; mere blind men’s ditties. ” But fortunately 
for Ben, the poor people of Boston were at that time no 


22 


THE LIFE OF 


judges of poetry. The silver-tongued Watts had not, as 
yet, snatched the harp of Zion, and poured his divine songs 
over New-England. And having never been accustomed to 
any thing better than an old version of David’s Psalms, 
running in this way—- 

“ Ye monsters of the bubbling deep, 

Your Maker’s praises spout! 

Up from your sands ye codlings peep, 

And wag your tails about.”— 

The people of Boston pronounced Ben’s poetry mighty fine, 
and bought them up at a prodigious rate; especially the 
Light-house Tragedy. 

A flood of success so sudden and unexpected, would in 
all probability have turned Ben’s brain and run him stark 
mad with vanity, had not his wise old father timely stepped 
in and checked the rising fever. But highly as Ben hon¬ 
oured his father, and respected his judgment, he could hardly 
brook to hear him attack his beloved poetry, as he did, calling 
it “were Grub-street .” And lie even held a stiff argument 
in defence of it. But on reading a volume of Pope, which 
his father, who well knew the force of contrast, put into his 
hand for that purpose, he never again opened his mouth in 
behalf of his “ blind men’s ditties . ” He used to laugh and 
say, that after reading Pope, he was so mortified with his 
Light-house Tragedy , and Sailor’s Song, which he had once 
thought so fine, that lie could not bear the sight of them, but 
constantly threw into the fire every copy that fell in his way. 
Thus was he timely saved, as he ingenuously confesses, from 
the very great misfortune of being, perhaps, a miserable 
jingler for life. 

But I cannot let fall the curtain on this curious chapter, 
without once more feasting my eyes on Ben, as, with a 
little basket on his arm, he trudged along the streets of Bos¬ 
ton crying his poetry. 

Who that saw the youthful David coming up fresh from 
his father’s sheep cots, with his locks wet with the dews of 
the morning, and his cheeks ruddy as the opening rose-buds, 
would have dreamed that this was he who should one day, 
single handed, meet the giant Goliah, in the war-darkened val¬ 
ley of Elah, and wipe oft' reproach from Israel. In like man¬ 
ner, who that saw this “ curly headed child,” at the tender 
age of thirteen, selling his “ blind men’s ditties ,” among the 
wondei -struck Jonathans and Jemimas of Boston, would have 
thought that this was he, who, single handed, was to meet 


DR. J RANKLIN. 


23 


the British ministry at the bar of their own house of Com¬ 
mons, and by the solar blaze of his wisdom, utterly disperse 
all their dark designs against their countrymen, thus gaining 
for himself a name lasting as time, and dear to liberty as the 
name of Washington. 

O you time-wasting, brain-starving young men, who can 
never je at ease unless you have a cigar or a plug of tobacco 
in your mouths, go on with your puffing and champing—go 
on with your filthy smoking, and your still more filthy spit¬ 
ting, keeping the cleanly house-wives in constant terror for 
their nicely waxed floors, and their shining carpets—go on 
I say; but remember it was not in this way that our little 
Ben became the GREAT UR. FRANKLIN. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

’Tis the character of a great mind never to despair. 
Though glory may not be gained in one way, it may in an¬ 
other. As a river, if it meet a mountain in its course, does 
not halt and poison all the country by stagnation, but rolls 
its gathering forces around the obstacle, urging its precious 
tides and treasures through distant lands. So it was with 
the restless genius of young Franklin. Finding that nature 
had never cut him out for a poet, he determined to take re¬ 
venge on her by making himself a good prose writer. As it is 
in this way that his pen has conferred great obligations on the 
world, it must be gratifying to learn by what means, humbly 
circumstanced as lie was, he acquired that perspicuity and 
ease so remarkable in his writings. This information must 
be peculiarly acceptable to such youth as are apt to despair 
of becoming good writers, because they have never been 
taught the languages. Ben’s example will soon convince 
them that Latin and Greek are not necessary to make En¬ 
glish scholars. Let them but commence with his passion 
for knowledge; with his firm persuasion, that wisdom is the 
glory and happiness of man, and the work is more than 
half done. 

Honest Ben never courted a young man because he was 
rich, or the son of the rich—No. His favourites were of the 
youth fond of reading and of rational conversation, no matter 
how poor they were. “ Birds of a feather do not more natu¬ 
rally flock together ,” than do young men of this high character. 


‘24 


THE LIFE OF 


This was what first attracted to him that ingenious young 
carpenter, Matthew Adams: as also John Collins, the tan¬ 
ner’s boy. These three spirited youth, after finding each 
other out, became as fond as brothers. And often as pos¬ 
sible, when the labours of the day were ended, they would 
meet at a little school-house in the neighbourhood, and argue 
on some given subject till midnight. The advantages of 
this as a grand mean of exercising memory, strengthening 
the reasoning faculty, disciplining the thoughts, and im¬ 
proving a correct and graceful elocution, became daily more 
obvious and important in their view, and consequently in¬ 
creased their mutual attachment. But from his own obser¬ 
vation of what passed in this curious little society, Ben 
cautions young men against that war of words , which the 
vain are too apt to fall into, and which tends not only to 
make them insupportably disagreeable through a disputatious 
spirit, but is apt also to betray into a fondness for quizzing, 
i. e. for asserting and supporting opinions which they do not 
themselves believe. He gives the following as a case in point. 

Ohp uight, Adams being absent, and only himself and 
Collins together in the old school-house, Ben observed that 
ne thought it a great pity that the young ladies were not 
more attended to, as to the improvement of their minds by 
education. He said, that with their advantages of sweet 
voices and beautiful faces, they could give tenfold charms 
to wit and sensible conversation, making heavenly truths to 
appear, as he had somewhere read in his father’s old Bible, 
“like apples of gold set in pictures of silver.” 

Collins blowed upon the*idea. He said, it was all stuff 
and no pity at all, that the girls were so neglected in their 
education, as they were naturally incapable of it. And here 
he repeated, laughing, that infamous slur on the ladies, 

“ Substance too soft a lasting miiul to bear, 

And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.” 

At this, Ben, who was already getting to be a great ad¬ 
mirer of the ladies, reddened up against Collins; and to it 
they fell, at once, in a stiff argument on the education of 
women—as whether they were capable of studying the 
sciences or not. Collins, as we have seen, led oft against 
the ladies. Being much of an infidel, he took the Turkish 
ground altogether, and argued like one just soured and sul¬ 
len from the seraglio. Women study the sciences indeed! 
said he, with a sneer; a pretty story truly! no sir , they have 


l>lt. FRANKLIN. 


25 


nothing to do with the sciences. They were not born for any 
such thing. 

Ben wanted to know what they were born for? 

Born for! retorted Collins, why to dress and dance; to 
sing and play ; and, like pretty tritlers, to divert tne lords of 
the creation, after their toils and studies. This is all they 
were born for, or ever intended of nature, who has given 
them capacities for nothing higher. Sometimes, indeed, 
they look grave, and fall into such brown studies as would 
lead one to suppose they meant to go deep; but it is all 
fudge. They are only trying in this new character to play 
thems&ves off to a better effect on their lovers. And if you 
could but penetrate the bosoms of these fair Penserosoes; 
you would find that under all this affectation of study they 
were only fatiguing their childish brains about what dress 
they should wear to the next ball: or what coloured ribands 
would best suit their new lutestrings. 

To this Ben replied with warmth, that it was extremely 
unphilosophical in Mr. Collins to argue in that way against 
the fair sex —that in fixing their destination he had by no 
means given them that high ground to which they were en¬ 
titled. You say, sir, continued Ben, that the ladies were 
created to amuse the men by the charm of their vivacity and 
accomplishments. - This to be sure was saying something. 
Put you might, I think, have said a great deal more; at least 
the Bible says a great deal more for them. The Bible, sir, 
tells us that God created woman to be the helpmate of man. 
Now if man were devoid of reason he might be well enough 
matched by such a monkey-like helpmate as you have de¬ 
scribed woman. But, sir, since man is a noble God-like 
creature, endued with the sublime capacities of reaso?i , how 
could woman ever make a helpmate to him, unless she were 
rational like himself, and thus capable of being the com¬ 
panion of his thoughts and conversation through all die plea¬ 
sant fields of knowledge? 

Here Collins interrupted *him, asking very sarcastically, 
if in this fine flourish in favour of the ladies he was really in 
earnest. 

Never more so in all my life, replied Ben, rather nettled. 

What, that the women are as capable of studying the 
sciences as the men? 

Yes, that the women are as capable of studying the 
sciences as the men. 

And pray, sir, continued Collins, tauntingly, do you know 

3 


I 


2b THE LIFE Of 

of any young woman of jour acquaintance that would make 
a Newton? 

And pray, sir, answered Ben, do you know any young 
man of your acquaintance that would? But these are no 
arguments, sir,—because it is not every young man or 
woman that can carry the science of astronomy so high as 
Newton, it does not follow that they are incapable of the 
science altogether. God sees lit in every age to appoint certain 
persons to Tdndle new lights among men.—And Newton 
was appointed greatly to enlarge our views of celestial ob¬ 
jects. But we are not thence to infer that he was in all 
respects superior to other men, for we are told that in some 
instances he was far inferior to other men. Collins denied 
ihat Newton had ever shown himself, in any point of wit 
inferior to other men. 

No, indeed, replied Ben; well what do you think of that 
tnecdote of him, lately published in the New England Cou- 
*ant from a London paper? 

And pray what is the anecdote? asked Collins. 

Why it is to this effect, said Ben.—Newton, mounted on 
he wings of astronomy, and gazing at the mighty orbs of 
ure above, had entirely forgotten the poor little lire that 
slumbered on his own hearth below, which presently forgot 
him, that is in plain English, went out. The frost piercing 
his nerves, called his thoughts home, when lo! in place ot 
the spacious skies, the gorgeous antichamber of the Almigh¬ 
ty, he found himself in his own little nut-shell apartment, 
cold and dark, comparatively, as the dwelling of the winter 
screech-owl. He rung the bell for his servant, who after 
making a rousing lire, went out again. But scarcely had 
the servant recovered his warm corner in the kitchen, before 
the vile bell, with a most furious ring, summoned him the 
second time. The servant flew into his master’s presence. 
Monster! cried Newton with a face inflamed as if it had 
been toasting at the tail of one of his comets, did you mean 
to burn me alive ? push back the fire! for God’s sake push 
back the fire , or I shall be a cinder in an instant! 

Push back the fire! replied the servant with a growl 
zounds, sir, I thought you might have had sense enough to 
push back your chair! 

Collins swore that it was only a libel against Sir Isaac. 

Ben contended that he had seen it in so many different 
publications, that he had no sort of doubt of its truth; espe¬ 
cially as Sir Hans Sloan had backed it with another anec* 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


27 


dote of Newton, in the same style; and to which lie avers 
he was both eve and ear witness. 

And pray what has that butterfly philosopher to say against 
the immortal Newton? asked Collins, quite angrily. 

Why, replied Ben, it is this: Sloan, stepping in one day. 
to see Sir Isaac, was told by his servant that he was up in 
his study, but would be down immediately; for there , sir, 
you see is his dinner , which I have just set on the table. —It 
was a pheasant so neatly browned in the roasting, and withal 
so plump and inviting to the eye, that Sloan could not resist 
the temptation; but venturing on his great intimacy with the 
knight, sat down and picked the delicious bird to the bone; 
having desired the cook in all haste to clap another to the 
spit. Presently down came Sir Isaac—was very glad to 
see his friend Sloan—how had he been all this time? and how 
did he leave his good lady and family ? you have not dined ? 
No. 


Very glad of it indeed; very glad. Well then, come dine 
with me.—Turning to the table, he sees the dish empty, and 
nis plate strewed with the bones of his favourite pheasant. 
—Lord bless me! he exclaimed, clasping his forehead, and 
looking betwixt laughing and blushing, at Sloan— what am 
I good for ? 1 have dined , as you see , my dear friend, and yet 
I had entirely forgot it! 

I don’t beiieve a syllable of it, said Collins; not one sylla¬ 
ble of it, sir. 

No, replied Ben; nor one syllable, I suppose, of his fa¬ 
mous courtship, when sitting by an elegant young lady, 
whom his friends wished him to make love to, he seized her 
lily white hand. But instead of pressing it with rapture to 
his bosom, he thrust it into the bowl of his pipe that he was 
smoking; thus making a tobacco stopper of one of the love¬ 
liest fingers in England; to the inexpressible mortification 
of the company, and to the most dismal scolding and scream¬ 
ing of the dear creature! 

’Tis all a lie, sir, said Collins, getting quite mad, all a 
confounded lie. The immortal Newton, sir, was never 
capable of acting so much like a blockhead. But supposing 
all this slang to be true, what would you infer from it, 
against that prince of philosophy?—Why I would infer from 
it, replied Ben, th$t though a great man, he was but a man. 
And I would also infer from it in favour of my fair clients, 
that though they did not make Sir Isaac’s discoveries in 
astronomy, they are yet very capable of comprehending 


28 


THE LIFE OF 


them. And besides, I am astonished, Mr. Collins, how any 
gentleman that loves himself, as I know you do, can thus 
traduce the ladies. Don’t you consider, sir, that in propor¬ 
tion as you lessen the dignity of the ladies, you lessen the 
dignity of your affections for them, and consequently, your 
own happiness in them, which must for ever keep pace with 
your ideas of their excellence.'—This was certainly a home 
thrust; and most readers would suppose, that Den was in a 
fair way to crow over his antagonist; but, Collins was a 
young man of too much pride and talents to give up so easi¬ 
ly. A spirited retort, of course, was made; a rejoinder 
followed, and thus the controversy was kept up until the 
watchman bawling twelve o’clock, reminded our stripling 
orators that it was time for them to quit the old school- 
house; which with great reluctance they did, but without 
being any nearer the end of their argument than when they 
began. 


— «>+® @ — 


CHAPTER IX. 

The shades of midnight had parted our young combatants, 
and silent and alone, Ben had trotted home to his printing- 
office; but still in his restless thoughts the combat raged in 
all its fury; still burning for victory, where truth and the 
ladies were at stake, he fell to mustering his arguments 
again, which now at the drum-beat of recollection came 
crowding on him so thick and strong that he felt equally 
ashamed and astonished that he had not utterly crushed his 
antagonist at once. He could see no reason on earth why 
Collins had made a drawn battle of it, but by his vastly su¬ 
perior eloquence. To deprive him of this advantage, Ben 
determined to attack him with his pen. And to this he felt 
the greater inclination, as they were not to meet again for 
several nights. So, committing his thoughts to paper, and 
taking a fair copy, he sent it to him. Collins, who, “was 
not born in the woods to be scared by an owl,” quickly an¬ 
swered, and Ben rejoined. In this way several vollies had 
passed on both sides, when good old Josias chanced to light 
upon them all; both the copies of Ben’s letters to Collins, 
and the answers. He read them with a deep interest, ana 
that very night sent for Ben that he might talk with him on 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


29 


their contents. “ So Ben!” said he to him as he pressed his 
beloved hand, “you have got into u paper war already , have 
you ?” 

Ben blushed. 

I don’t mean to blame yoj, my son, continued the old 
gentleman. I don’t blame you; on the contrary l am de 
lighted to see you taking such pains to improve your mind. 
Go on, my dear boy, go on; for your mind is the only part that 
is worth your care: and the more you accustom yourself to 
find your happiness in that , the better. The body, as I have 
a thousand times told you, is but nicely organized earth, that 
in spite of the daintiest meats and clothes, will soon grow old 
and withered, and then die and rot back to earth again. 
But the Mind, Ben, is the Heavenly part, the Immortal 
inhabitant, who, if early nursed with proper thoughts and 
affections, is capable of a feast that will endure for ever. 

This your little controversy with your friend Collins is 
praiseworthy, because it has a bearing on that grand point, 
the improvement of your mind. 

But let me suggest a hint or two, my son, for your better 
conduct of it. You have greatlv the advantage of Mr. Col- 
lins,in correctness of spelling and pointing; which you owe 
entirely to your profession as a printer; but then he is as 
far superior to you in other respects. He certainly has not 
so good a cause as you have, but he manages it better. He 
clothes his ideas with such elegance of expression, and ar¬ 
ranges his arguments with so much perspicuity and art, as 
will captivate all readers in his favour, and snatch the vic¬ 
tory from you, notwithstanding your better cause. In con¬ 
firmation of these remarks, the old gentleman drew from his 
pocket the letters of their correspondence, and read to him 
several passages, as strong cases in point. 

Ben sensibly felt the justice of these criticisms, and after 
thanking his father for his goodness in making them, assured 
nim, that as he delighted above all things in reading books 
of a beautiful style, so he was resolved to spare no pains to 
acquire so divine an art. 

The next day, going into a fresh part of the town, with a 
paper to a new subscriber, he saw, on the side of the street, 
a little table spread out and covered with a parcel of toys, 
among which lay an odd volume, with a neat old woman sit¬ 
ting by. As he approached the table to look at the book, 
the old lady lifting on him a most pleasant countenance, said, 

“ well my little man do you ever dream dreams?” 


so 


TIIE LIFE OF 


Ben rather startled at so strange a salutation, replied, 
that he had dream’t in his time.— fVeil , continued the old 
woman, and what do you think of dreams ; do you put any 
faith in ’’em ? 

Why, no, madam, answered Ben; as I have seldom had 
dreams except after taking too hearty a supper, I have al¬ 
ways looked on ’em as a mere matter of indigestion, and so 
have never troubled my head much about ’em. 

Weil now , replied the old lady, laughing, there’s just the 
difference between you and me. /, for my part , always takes 
great notice of dreams , they generally turn out so true. And 
now can you tell what a droll dream I had last night ? 

Ben answered that he was no Daniel to interpret dreams. 

Well, said the old lady,I dreamed last night, that a little 
man just like you, came along here and bought that old book 
of me. 

Aye! why that’s a droll dream sure enough, replied Ben; 
and pray, Madam, what do you ask for your old book ? 

Only four pence halfpenny , said the old lady. 

Well, Madam, continued Ben, as your dreaming has 
generally, as you say, turned out true, it shall not be other¬ 
wise now; there’s your money —so now as you have another 
reason for putting faith in dreams, you can dream again. 

As Ben took up his book to go away, the old lady said, 
stop a minute, my son, stop a minute. I have not told you 
the whole of my dream yet. Then looking very gravely a* 
him, she said, But though my dream showed that the book 
was to be bought by a little man, it did not say he was al¬ 
ways to be little. No; for I saw, in my dream, that he 
grew up to be a great man; the lightnings of heaven played 
around his head, and the shape of a kingly crown was be¬ 
neath his feet. I heard his name as a pleasant sound from 
distant lands, and I saw it through clouds of smoke and 
flame, among the tall victor ships that strove in the last bat¬ 
tle for the freedom of the seas. She uttered this with a raised 
voice and glowing cheek, as though the years to come, with 
all their mighty deeds, were passing before her. 

Ben was too young yet to suspect who this old woman 
was, though he felt as he had read the youthful Telemachus 
did, when the fire-eyed Minerva, in the shape of Mentor, 
roused his soul to virtue. 

Farewell, Madam, said Ben with a deep sigh, as he went 
away; you might have spared that part of your dream, for I 
am sure there is very little chance of its ever coming to pass. 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


3) 


But though Ben went away to attend to his brother’s bu 
siness, yet the old woman’s looks made such an impression 
on his mind, that he could not help going the next day to 
see her again; but she was not there any more. 

On leaving the old woman, he opened his book, when, be¬ 
hold, what should it be but an odd volume of the Spectator, 
a book which he had not seen before. The number which he 
chanced to open was the vision of Mirzah; which so caught 
his attention that he could not take it off until he had got 
through. What the people thought of him for reading in 
that manner as he walked along the street, he knew not; 
nor did he once think, he was so taken up with his book. 
He felt as though he would give the world to write in so 
enchanting a style; and to that end he carried his old 
volume constantly in his pocket, that by committing, as it 
were, to memory, those sweetly flowing lines, he might stand 
a chance to fall into the imitation of them. He took ano¬ 
ther curious method to catch Addison’s charming style; he 
would select some favourite chapter out of the Spectator, 
make short summaries of the sense of each period, and put 
them for a few days aside; then without looking at the book, 
he would endeavour to restore the chapter to its first form, 
by expressing each thought at full length. 

These exercises soon convinced him that he greatly lack¬ 
ed a fund of words, and a facility of employing them; both 
of which he thought would have been abundantly supplied, 
had he but continued his old trade of making verses . The 
continual need of words of the same meaning , but of different 
lengths , for the measure ; or of different sounds, for the 
rhyme , would have obliged him to seek a variety ot synony- 
mes. From this belief he took some of the papers and turn¬ 
ed them into verse; and after he had sufficiently forgotten 
them, he again converted them into prose. 

On comparing his Spectator with the original, he discovei- 
ed many faults; but panting, as he did, for perfection in 
this noble art, nothing could discourage him. He bravely 
persevered in his experiments, and though he lamented that 
in most instances he still fell short of the charming original, 
yet in some lie thought he had clearly improved the order 
and style. And when this happened, it gave him unspeak¬ 
able satisfaction, as it sprung the dear hope that in time he 
should succeed in writing the English language in the same 
enchanting manner. 


32 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER X. 

About tins time, which was somewhere in his sixteenth 
year, Ben lighted on a very curious work, by one Fry on , re¬ 
commending vegetable diet altogether, and condemning 
“ animal food as a great crime.” He read it with all the 
avidity of a young and honest mind that wished to renounce 
error and embrace truth. “From start to pole,” as the 
racers say, his conscience was under the lash, pointing at 
him as the dreadful Sarcophagist, or Meat-eater alluded 
to by this severe writer. He could not, without horror re 
fleet, that young as lie was, his stomach had yet been the 
grave of hundreds of lambs, pigs, birds, and other little ani¬ 
mals, “who had never injured him.” And when he ex¬ 
tended the dismal idea over the vast surface of the globe, 
and saw the whole human race pursuing and butchering the 
poor brute creation, filling the sea and land with cries and 
blood and slaughter, he felt a depression of spirits with an 
anguish of mind that strongly tempted him, not only to de¬ 
test man, but even to charge God himself with cruelty. But 
this distress did not continue long. Impatient of such 
wretchedness, he set all the powers of his mind to work, 
to discover designs in all this, worthy of the Creator. To 
his unspeakable satisfaction he soon made these important 
discoveries. ’Tis true, said he, man is constantly butcher¬ 
ing the inferior creatures. And it is also true that they are 
constantly devouring one another. But after all, shocking 
as this may seem, it is but dying: it is but giving up life, 
or returning a something which was not their own ; which 
for the honour of his goodness in their enjoyment, was only 
lent them for a season; and which, therefore, they ought not 
to think hard to return. 

Now certainly, continued Ben, all this is very clear and 
easy to be understood. Well then, since all life, whether 
of man or beast, or vegetables, is a kind loan of God, and 
to be taken back again, the question is whether the way in 
fvdiich we see it is taken back is not the best way. It is 
.rue, life being the season of enjoyment, is so dear to us that 
there is no way of giving it up which is not shocking. And 
this horror which we feel at the thought of having our own 
lives taken from us we extend to the brutes. We cannot 
help feeling shocked at the butcher killing a lamb, or one 
animal killing another. Nay, tell even a child who is look 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


mg with smiles on a go^d old family horse that has just 
brought a bag of flour from the mill, or a load of wood from 
the forest, that this his beloved horse will by and by be eaten 
up of the buzzards, and instantly his looks will manifest ex¬ 
treme distress. And if his mother, to whom he turns for 
contradiction of this horrid prophecy, should confirm it, he 
is struck dumb with horror, or bursts into strong cries as if 
his little heart would break at thought of the dismal end to 
which his horse is coming. These, though very amiable, are 
yet the amiable weaknesses of the child, which, it is the 
duty of man to overcome. This animal was created of his 
God for the double purpose of doing service to man, and of 
enjoying comfort himself. And when these are accomplished, 
and that life which was only lent him is recalled, is it not 
better that nature’s scavengers, the buzzards, should take 
up his flesh and keep the elements sweet, than that it should 
lie on the fields to shock the sight and smell of all who pass 
by? The fact is, continued Ben, I see that all creatures 
that live, whether men or beasts, or vegetables, are doomed 
to die. Now were it not a greater happiness that this uni¬ 
versal calamity, as it appears, should be converted into an 
universal blessing, and this dying of all be made the living 
of all ? Well, through the admirable wisdom and goodness 
of the Creator, this is exactly the case. The vegetables all 
die to sustain animals; and animals, whether birds, beasts, 
or fishes, all die to sustain man, or one another. Now, is 
it not far better for them that they should be thus continually 
changing into each other’s substance, and existing in the 
wholesome shapes of life and vigour, than to be scattered 
about dying and dead, shocking all eyes with their ghastly 
forms, and poisoning both sea and air with the stench of their 
corruption ? 

This scrutiny into the economy of nature in this matter, 
gave him such an exalted sense of nature’s Great Author, 
that in a letter to his father, to whom he made a point of 
writing every week for the benefit of his corrections, he says, 
though I was at first greatly angered with Tryon, yet after¬ 
wards I felt myself much obliged to him for giving me such 
a hard nut to crack, for I have picked out of it one of the 
sweetest kernels I ever tasted. In truth, father, continues 
he, although I do not make much noise or show about re¬ 
ligion, yet I entertain a most adoring sense of the Great 
First Cause ; insomuch that I had rather cease to exist than 
cease to believe him all wise and benevolent. 


THE LIFE OF 


S4 


In the midst, however, of these pleasing speculations, am 
other disquieting idea was suggested.—Is it not cruel, after 
giving life to take it away again so soon ? The tender grass 
has hardly risen above the earth, in all its spring-tide green 
and sweetness, before its beauty is all cropped by the lamb; 
and the playful lamb, full dressed in his snow-white fleece, 
has scarcely tasted the sweets of existence, before he is 
caught up by the cruel wolf or more cruel man. And so 
with every bird and fish: this has scarcely learned to sing 
his song to the listening grove, or that to leap witli transport 
from the limpid wave, before he is called to resign his life to 
man or some larger animal. 

This was a horrid thought, which, like a cloud, spread a 
deep gloom over Ben’s mind. But his reflections, like the 
sunbeams, quickly pierced and dispersed them. 

These cavillers, said he, in another letter, are entirely 
wrong. They wish, it seems, long life to the creatures; the 
Creator wishes them a pleasant one. They would have but 
a few to exist in a long time; he a great many in a short 
time. Now as youth is the season of gaiety and enjoyment, 
and all after is comparatively insipid, is it not better, before 
that pleasant state is ended in sorrow, the creature should 
pass away by a quick and generally easy fate, and appear 
again in some other shape P Surely if the grass could 
reason, it would prefer, while fresh and beautiful, to be 
cropped by the lamb and converted into his substance, 
than, by staying a little longer, to disfigure the fields with its 
faded foliage. And the lamb too, if he could but think and 
choose, would ask for a short life and a merry one , rather 
than, by staying a little longer, degenerate into a ragged 
old sheep, snorting with the rattles, and dying of the rot, or 
murrain. 

But though Ben, at the tender age of sixteen, and with 
no other aid than his own strong mind, could so easily quefl 
this host of atheistical doubts, which Tryon had conjured up; 
yet he hesitated not to become his disciple in another tenet. 
Tryon asserted of animal food, that though it gave great 
strength to the body, yet it contributed sadly to grossness of 
blood and heaviness of mind; and hence he reasoned, that all 
who wish for cool heads and clear thoughts should make theii 
diet principally of vegetables. Ben was struck with this as 
the perfection of reason, and entered so heartily into it as a 
rare help for acquiring knowledge, that he instantly resolved, 
fond as he was of flesh and fish, to give both up from that 


1>R. FRANKLIN. 


35 


day, and never taste them again as long as lie lived This 
steady refusal of his to eat meat, was looked on as a very 
inconvenient singularity by his brother, who scolded him for 
it, and insisted he should give it up. Ben made no words 
with his brother on this account.—Knowing that avarice was 
his ruling passion, he threw out a bait to James which in¬ 
stantly caught, and without any disturbance produced the 
accommodation he wished. 44 Brother,” said lie to him one 
day as he scolded; “you give three shillings and six pence 
a week for my diet at this boarding-house; give me but half 
that money and I’ll diet myself without any farther trouble 
or expense to you.” James immediately took him at his 
word and gave him in hand his week’s ration, one shilling 
and nine pence, which after the Boston exchange, six shil¬ 
lings to the dollar, makes exactly thirty-seven and a half 
cents. Those who often give one dollar for a single dinner, 
and five dollars for a fourth of July dinner, would look very 
blue at an allowance of thirty-seven and a half cents for a 
whole week. But Ben so husbanded this little sum, that 
after defraying all the expenses of his table, he found him 
self at the end of the week, near twenty cents in pocket— 
thus expending not quite three cents a day! This was a 
joyful discovery .to Ben—twenty cents a week, said he, 
and fifty-two weeks in the year; why, that is upwards of ten 
dollars in the twelve months! what a noble fund for books! 
Nor was this the only benefit he derived from it; for, while 
his brother and the journeymen were gone to the boarding¬ 
house to devour their pork and beef, which, with lounging 
and picking their teeth, generally took them an hour, he 
stayed at the printing-office; and after dispatching his frugal 
meal, of boiled potatoe, or rice; or a slice of bread with an 
apple; or bunch of raisins and a glass of water, he had the 
rest of the time for study. The pure fluids and bright spirits 
secreted from such simple diet, proved exceedingly favour¬ 
able to that clearness and vigour of mind, and rapid growth 
in knowledge which his youthful soul delighted in. 

I cannot conclude this chapter without making a remark 
which the reader has perhaps anticipated—that it was by 
this simple regimen, vegetables and water, that the Jewish 
seer, the holy Daniel, while a youth, w r as of Providence 
made fit for all the learning of the East; hence arose his 
bright visions into futurity, and his clear pointings to the 
fa/distant days of the Messiah, when the four great brass 
and iron monarenies ol Media, Persia, Grecia, and Borne, 


36 


THE LIFE OF 


being overthrown, Christ should set up his last golden mo¬ 
narchy of Love, which, though faint in the beginning as the 
first beam of the uncertain dawn, shall yet at length bright¬ 
en all the skies, and chase the accursed clouds of sin and 
suffering from the abodes of man and beast. 

In like manner, it was on the simple regimen of vegetables 
and water, the easy purchase of three cents a day, that the 
same Providence raised up our young countryman to guard 
the last spark of perfect liberty in the British colonies of 
North America. Yes, it.was on three cents’ worth of daily 
bread and water, that young Ben Franklin commenced his 
collection of that blaze of light, which early as 1754, showed 
the infant and unsuspecting colonies their rights and their 
dangers —and which afterwards, in 1764, blasted the trea¬ 
sonable stamp act—and finally, in ’73 and ’74, served as the 
famed star of the East, to guide Washington and his wise 
men of the revolution, to the cradle of liberty, struggling in 
the gripe of the British Herod, lord North. There rose the 
oattle of God for an injured people; there spread the star- 
spangled banner of freedom; and there poured the blood of 
the brave, fighting for the rights of man under the last re¬ 
public. 0 that God may long preserve this precious vine of 
nis own right hand planting, for his own glory and the hap¬ 
piness of unborn millions I 

But the reader must not conclude that Ben, through life, 
tied himself up to a vegetable diet. No. Nature will have 
her way. And having designed man partly carnivorous, as 
his canine teeth, his lengthened bowels, and his flesh-pot 
appetites all evince, she will bring him back to the healthy 
mixture of animal food with vegetable, or punish his obsti¬ 
nacy with diarrhoea and debility. But she had no great diffi¬ 
culty in bringing Ben back to the use of animal foock Ac¬ 
cording to his own. account, no nosegay was ever more 
fragrant to his olfactories than was the smell of fresh fish in 
the frying pan. And as to his objection to such a savory diet 
on account of its stupifying effects on the brain, he easily 
got the better of that, when he reflected that the witty queen 
Elizabeth breakfasted on beef-stake; that sir Isaac New¬ 
ton dined on pheasants; that Horace supped on fat bacon; 
and that Pope both breakfasted, dined, and supped on shrimps 
and oysters. And for the objection taken from the cruelty 
of killing innocent animals, for their flesh, he got over that 
by the following curious accident:—On his first voyage to 
New-York, the vessel halting on the coast for lack of breeze, 


DR FRANKLIN. 




the sailors all fell to fishing for cod, of which they presently 
took great numbers and very fine. Instead of being de¬ 
lighted at this sight, Ben appeared much hurt, and began to 
preach to the crew on their 44 injustice,” as he called it, in 
thus taking away the lives of those poor little fish, who, 
• 4 had never injured them , nor ever could.” The sailors were 
utterly dum-founded at such queer logic as this. Taking 
their silence for conviction, Ben rose in his argument, and 
began to play the orator quite outrageously on the main 
deck. At length an old wag of a boatswain, who had at 
first been struck somewhat aback by the strangeness of this 
attack, took courage, and luffing up again, with a fine breeze 
of humour in his weather-beaten sail, called out to Ben, 
“Well, but my young Master preacher , may not we deal by 
these same cod here , as they deal by their neighbours. ” 

44 To be sure,” said Ben. 

44 Well then, sir, see here,” replied the boatswain, holding 

up a stout fish, 44 see here what a whaler I took just now outo* 

the belly of that cod 1” Ben looking as if he had his doubts, 

the boatswain went on, 44 O sir, if you come to that, you shall 

have proof;” whereupon he laid hold of a large big-bellied 

cod that was just then flouncing on the deck, and ripping 

him open, in the presence of Ben and the crew, turned out 

several young; cod from his maw.i 

%} # 

Here, Ben, well pleased with this discovery, cried out, 
Oho! villains! is that the game you play with one another un¬ 
der the water! Unnatural wretches! What! eat one another! 
Well then, if a cod can eat his own brother, I see no reason 
in nature why man may not eat him. With that he seized a 
stout young fish just fresh from his native brine, and frying him 
in all haste, made a very hearty meal. Ben never after this, 
made any more scruples about animal food, but ate fish, flesh, 
or fowl, as they came in his way, without asking any ques¬ 
tions for conscience sake. 




CHAPTER XI. 

Except the admirable Crichton, I have never heard 
(fa genius that was fitted to shine in every art and science. 
Eveif Newton was dull in languages; and Pope used to sa^ 
of himself, that 44 he had as leave hear the squeal of pigs 

4 


58 


THE LIFE OF 


m a gate, as hear the organ of Handel!” Neither was oui den 
the 44 ovnnis homo ” or 44 Jack of all trades . ” He never cjuld 
bear the mathematics! and even arithmetic presented to him 
no attractions at all. Not that he was not capable of it; for. 
happening anout this time, still in his sixteenth year, to be 
laughed at for his ignorance in the art of calculation, he went 
and got himself a copy of old Cocker’s Arithmetic, one of 
the toughest in those days, and went through it by himself 
with great ease. The truth is, his mind was at this time en¬ 
tirely absorbed in the ambition to be a finished writer of the 
English language; such a one, if possible, as the Spectator, 
whom he admired above all others. 

While labouring, as we have seen, to improve his style, 
he laid his hands on all the English Grammars he could hear 
of. Among the number was a treatise of that sort, an old 
shabby looking thing, which the owner, marking his curiosity 
in those matters, made him a present of. Ben hardly re¬ 
turned him a thankee, as doubting at first whether it was 
worth carrying home. But how great was his surprise, when 
coming towards the close of it, he found, crammed into a 
small chapter, a treatise on the art of disputation, after the 
manner of Socrates. The treatise was very short, but it was 
enough for Ben; it gave an outline, and that was all he want 
ed. As the little whortle-berry boy, on the sands of Cape 
May, grabbling for his breakfast in a turtle’s nest, if he 
but reaches with his little hand but one egg, instantly laughs 
with joy, as well knowing that all the rest will follow, like 
beads on a string. So it was with the eager mind of Ben, when 
he first struck on this plan of Socratic disputation. In an in¬ 
stant his thoughts ran through all the threads and meshes of 
the wondrous net; and he could not help laughing in his 
sleeve, to think what a fine puzzling cap he should soon 
weave for the frightened heads of Collins, Adams, and all 
others who should pretend to dispute with him. But the use 
which he principally had in view to make of it, and which 
tickled his fancy most, was how completely he should now 
confound those ignorant and hypocritical ones in Boston, 
who were continually boring him about religion. Not that 
Ben ever took pleasure in confounding those who were ho¬ 
nestly desirous of showing their religion by their good works; 
for such were always his esteem and delight. But he could 
never away with those who neglected justice, mercy, and 
truth, and yet affected great familiarities with the Deity, 
from certain conceited wonders that Christ had wrought in 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


39 


\ 


‘hem. As no youth ever more heartily desired the happiness 
of man and beast than B;n did, so none ever more seriously 
resented that the religion of love and good works tending to 
this,- should be usurped by a harsh, barren puritanism, with 
her disfigured faces, whine and cant. This appeared to him 
like Dagon overturning the Ark of God with a vengeance. 
Burning with zeal against such detestable phariseeism he 
rejoiced in his Socratic logic as a new kind of weapon, wnich 
he hoped to employ with good effect against it. He studied 
his Socrates day and night, and particularly his admirable 
argumentations given by Xenophon, in his book, entitled 
“ Memorable things of Socrates:” and in a little time 
came to wield his new artillery with great dexterity and 
success. 

But in all his rencontres with the false Christians, he ad 
hered strictly to the spirit of Socrates, as being perfectly 
congenial to his own. Instead of blunt contradictions and 
positive assertions, he would put modest questions; and after 
obtaining of them concessions of which they did not foresee 
the consequences , he would involve them in difficulties and 
embarrassments, from which they could never extricate them¬ 
selves. Had he possessed a vanity capable of being satisfied 
with the triumph of wit over dulness, he might long have 
crowed the master cock of this Socratic pit. But finding 
that his victories seldom produced any practical good; that 
they were acquired at a considerable expense of time, ne¬ 
glect of business, and injury of his temper, which was never 
formed for altercation with bigots, he abandoned it by de¬ 
grees, retaining only the habit of expressing himself with a 
modest diffidence. And not only at that time, but ever after¬ 
wards through life, it was remarked of him, that in argument 
he rarely used the words certainly, undoubtedly, or any others 
that might convey the idea of being obstinately conceited of 
his own opinion. His ordinary phrases were —I imagine — 
I suppose —or, it appears to me, that such a thing is so and 
so —or, it is so, if lam not mistaken. By such soothing arts 
he gradually conciliated the good will of his opponents, and 
almost always succeeded in bringing them over to his wishes. 
Hence he used to say, it was great pity that sensible and 
well-meaning persons should lessen their own usefulness by 
a positive and presumptuous way of talking, which only 
serves to provoke opposition from the passionate, and shy¬ 
ness from the prudent, who rather than get into a dispute 
with such self-conceited characters, will hold their peace. 


40 


TJIE LIFE OF 


and let them go on in their errors In short, if you wish 
to answer one of the noblest ends for which tongues were 
given to rational beings, which is to inform or to be inform¬ 
ed, to please and to persuade them, for heaven’s sake, treat 
their opinions, even though erroneous, with great politeness. 

“ Men must be taught as though you taught them not, 

And tilings unknown propos’d as things forgot,” 

«ays Mr. Pope; and again 

To speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence ; 

For want of modesty is want of sense. ” 




CHAPTER XII. 

So late as 1720, there was but one newspaper m all North 
America, and even this by some was thought one too many 
so little reading was there among the people in those days. 
But believing that the reading appetite, weak as it was, ran 
more on newspapers than any thing else, James Franklin took 
it into his head to start another paper. His friends ail vowed 
it would be the ruin of him; but James persevered, and a 
second newspaper, entitled “The New England Cou- 
rant,” was published. What was the number of sub¬ 
scribers, after so long a lapse of time, is now unknown; but 
it was Ben’s humble lot to furnish their papers after having 
assisted to compose and work them off. 

Among his friends, James had a number of literary cha¬ 
racters, who, by way of amusement, used to write for his 
paper. These gentlemen frequently visited him at his office, 
merely for a little chat, and to tell how highly the public 
thought of their pieces Ben attended closely to their con 
versation, and happening to think they were no great wits, 
he determined to cut in and try his hand among them. But 
how to get his little adventures into the paper was the ques¬ 
tion, and a serious one too ; for he knew very well that his 
brother, looking on him as hardly more than a child, would 
not dream of printing any thing that he knew had come from 
liis pen. Stratagem of course must be resorted to. He took 
his time, and having written his piece pretty much to his 
mind, lie copied it in a disguised hand, and when they were 
all gone to bed, slyly shoved it under the door of the office; 
vhere it was found next morning. In the course of the dav. 

o j 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


41 


his friends dropping in as usual, James showed them the 
stranger paper; a caucus was held, and with aching heart 
Ken heard his piece read for their criticism. It was highly 
applauded: and to his greater joy still, among their various 
conjectures as to the author, not one was mentioned who did 
not hold a distinguished reputation for talents! Encouraged by 
such good success of this his first adventure, he wrote on, and 
sent to the press, in the same sly way, several other pieces, 
which were equally approved, keeping the secret till his slen¬ 
der stock of information was pretty completely exhausted, 
when he came out with the real author. 

His brother, on this discovery, began to entertain a little 
more respect for him, but still looked on and treated him 
as a common apprentice. Ben, on the other hand, thought 
that, as a brother, he had a right to greater indulgence, and 
sometimes complained of James as rather too rigorous. This 
difference in opinion rose to disputes, which were often 
brought before their father, who either from partiality to 
Ken, or his better cause, generally gave it in his favour. 
James could not bear these awards of his father in favour 
of a younger brother, but would fly into a passion and treat 
him with abuse even to blows. Ben took this tyrannical 
behaviour of his brother in extremely ill part; and he some¬ 
where says that it imprinted on his mind that deep -rooted 
aversion to arbitrary power, which he never lost, and which 
rendered him through life such a firm and unconquerable ene¬ 
my of oppression. His apprenticeship became insupportable, 
and lie sighed continually for an opportunity of shortening 
it, which at length unexpectedly offered. 

An article in his paper, on some political subject, giving 
great offence to the assembly, James was taken up; and be¬ 
cause he would not discover the author, was ordered into 
confinement for a month. Ben also was had up and examined 
before the council, who, after reprimanding, dismissed him. 
probably because deeming him bound, as an apprentice, to 
keep his master’s secrets. 

Notwithstanding their private quarrels, this imprisonment 
of his brother excited Ben’s indignation against the assem¬ 
bly; and having now, during James’ confinement, the sole 
direction of the paper, he boldly came out every week with 
some severe pasquinade against 44 The little tyrants of Bos¬ 
ton .” But though this served to gratify his own angry feel¬ 
ings, and to tickle James, as also to gain himself the charac¬ 
ter of a wonderful young man for satire; yet it answered no 

4* 


42 


THE LIFE OF 


good end, but far contrariwise, proved a fatal blow to their 
newspaper; for at the expiration of the month, James’s en¬ 
largement was accompanied with an order from the assem¬ 
bly, that “James Franklin should no longer print the 

NEWSPAPER ENTITLED THE New ENGLAND CoURANT.” 

This was a terrible thunder-clap on poor James and his 
whole scribbling squad; and Ben could find no lightning 
rod to parry the bolt. A caucus, however, of all the friends 
was convoked at the printing-office, to devise ways and means 
of redress. One proposed this measure and another that; 
but the measure proposed by James himself was at length 
adopted. This was to carry on the newspaper under Ben’s 
name. But , said some, will not the assembly haul you over 

the coals for thus attempting to whip the d - 1 round the 

stump ? 

No, replied James. 

Aye, how will you prevent it? 

Why, I’ll give up Ben’s indentures. 

So then you’ll let Ben run free? 

No, nor that neither ; for he shall sign a new contract. 

This was to be sure a very shallow arrangement, it was 
however carried into immediate execution, and the paper 
continued in consequence to make its appearance for some 
months in Ben’s name. At length a new difference arising 
Detween the brothers, and Ben knowing that James would 
not dare to talk of his new contract , boldly asserted his 
freedom! 

His numerous admirers will here blush for poor Ben, and 
hide their reddening cheeks. But let them redden as they 
may, they will hardly ever equal that honest crimson which 
glows in the following lines from his own pen: 

44 It was, no doubt, very dishonourable to avail myself of 
this advantage, and I reckon this as the first error of my 
life. But I was little capable of seeing it in its true light, 
embittered as my mind had been by the blows I had received 
Exclusively of lvis passionate treatment of me, my brother 
was by no means an ill tempered man. And even here, per¬ 
haps, my manners had too much of impertinence not to af¬ 
ford it a very natural pretext.” 

Go thy way, honest Ben. Such a confession of error wil 
plead thy excuse with all who know their own inhrmities, and 
remember what the greatest saints have done. Yes, when 
we remember what young Jacob did to his brothei Esau, and 
iow he came over him with his mess of pottage, robbing him 



1>R. FRANKLIN. 


43 


*f his birthright; and also what David did to Uriah, whom 
he robbed not only of his wife, but of his life also, we surely 
shall pity not only Ben, but every man his brother for theii 
follies, and heartily rejoice that there is mercy with Christ 
to forgive «//, on their repentance and amendment. 


— «**♦© Q) 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Finding that to live with James in the pleasant relations 
of a brother and a freeman was a lost hope, Ben made up his 
mind to quit him and go on journey-work with some of the 
Boston printers. But James suspecting Ben’s intentions, 
went around town to the printers, and made such a re¬ 
port of him, that not a man of them all would have ar.y 
thing to say to him. The door of employment thus shut 
against him, and all New England furnishing no other 
printing office, Ben determined, inquest of one, to push off 
to New-York. lie was farther conhrmed in this resolution 
by a consciousness that his newspaper squibs in behalf of his 
brother, had made the governing party his mortal enemies. 
And he was also afraid that his bold and indiscreet argu¬ 
mentation against the gloomy puritans, had led those crab¬ 
bed people to look on him as no better than a young atheist, 
whom it would be doing God service to worry as they would 
a wild cat. He felt indeed that it was high time to be off. 

To keep his intended flight from the knowledge of his fa¬ 
ther, his friend Collins engaged his passage with the captain 
of a New-York sloop, to whom he represented Ben as an 
amorous young blade, who wished to get away privately in 
consequence of an intrigue with a worthless hussy, whom 
her relations wanted to force upon him. Ben had no mo¬ 
ney. But he had money’s worth. Having, for four years 
past, been carefully turning into books every penny he could 
spare, he had by this time made up a pretty little library. 
It went prodigiously against him to break in upon his books. 
But there was no help for it. So turning a parcel of them 
back again into money, he slipped privately on board of a 
sloop, which on the third day landed him safely in New- 
York, three hundred miles from home, only seventeen years 
old, without a single friend in the place, and but little money 
m his pocket. 


44 


THE LIFE OF 


He immediately offered his services to a Mr. Bradford 
the only printer in New-York. The old gentleman express- 
ed Ins regret that he could give him no employment; but in 
a very encouraging manner advised him to go on to Phila¬ 
delphia, where he had a son, a printer, who would probably 
do something for him. Philadelphia was a good hun* 
dred miles farther off; but Ben, nothing disheartened by 
that, instantly ran down to the wharf, and took his passage 
in an open boat for Amboy, leaving his trunk to follow him 
by sea. In crossing the bay, they were overtaken by a dread¬ 
ful squall, during which a drunken Dutchman, a passenger, 
fell headlong into the raging waves. Being hissing hot and 
swollen with rum, he popped up like a dead cattish; but just 
as he was going down the second time, never to rise again, 
by a miracle of mercy, Ben caught him by the fore-top, and 
lugged him in, where he lay tumbled over on the bottom of 
the boat, fast asleep, and senseless as a corpse of the fright¬ 
ful storm which threatened every moment to bury them all 
in a watery grave. The violence of the wind presently drove 
them on the rocky coasts of Long Island; where, to prevent 
being dashed to pieces among the furious breakers, they cast 
anchor, and there during the rest of the day, and all night 
long, lay riding out the gale. Their little boat pitching 
bows under at every surge, while the water constantly fly¬ 
ing over them in drenching showers, kept them as wet as 
drowned rats; and not only unable to get a wink of sleep, 
but also obliged to stir their stumps, baling the boat to keep 
her from sinking. 

The wind falling the next day, they reached A.nboj* 
about dark, after having passed thirty hours without a n.orsel 
of victuals, and with no other drink than a bottle of bad rum; 
the water upon which they had rowed, being as salt as brine. 
Ben went to bed with a high fever. Having somewhere read 
that cold water, plentifully drank, was good in such cases; he 
followed the prescription, which threw him into a profuse 
sweat, and the fever left him. The next day, feeble and alone, 
he set out, with fifty wearisome miles*to walk before he could 
reach Burlington, whence he was told that a passage boat 
would take him to Philadelphia. To increase his depression, 
soon as he left the tavern, it set in to rain hard. But though 
wet to the skin, he pressed on by himself through the 
gloomy woods till noon, when feeling much fatigued, and 
the ram still pouring down, he stopped at a paltry tavern, 
wnere ne passed the rest of the day and night. In this 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


45 


»ioomy situation he began seriously to repent that he had ever 
left home; and the more, as from the wretched figure lie made* 
every body was casting a suspicious eye upon him as a run 
away servant. Indeed, from the many insulting questions 
put to him, he felt himself every moment in danger of being 
taken up as such, and then what would his father think or 
hearing that he was in jail as a runaway servant, four hun¬ 
dred miles from home! And what a triumph to his brother. 
\lter a very uneasy night, however, he rose and continued his 
journey till the evening, when he stopped about ten miles 
from Burlington, at a little tavern, kept by one Dr. Brown. 
While he was taking some refreshment, Brown came in, 
and being of a facetious turn, put a number of droll ques¬ 
tions to him; to which Ben retorted in a style so superioi 
to his youthful looks and shabby dress, that the Doctor be¬ 
came quite enamoured of him. He kept him up conversing 
until midnight; and next morning would not touch a penny 
ot his money. This was a very seasonable liberality to poor 
Ben, for he had now very little more than a dollar in his 
pocket. 

On reaching Burlington, and buying some gingerbread 
for his passage, he hastened to the wharf. But alas! the boat 
had just sailed! This was on Saturday; and there would be 
no other boat until Tuesday. Having been much struck with 
the looks of the old woman, of whom he had just bought his 
cargo of gingerbread, he went back and asked her advice. 
Her behaviour proved that he had some skill in physiogno¬ 
my. For the moment he told her of his sad disappointment 
anil his doubts how he should act, she gave him the tender 
look of a mother, and told him he must stay with her till the 
next boat sailed. Pshaw! Don’t mind these little disappoint¬ 
ments, child, said she, seeing him uneasy; they are not 
worth your being troubled about. When I was young, I 
used to be troubled about them too. But now I see that it 
is all but vanity. So stay with me till the boat goes again; 
and rest yourself, for I am sure you must be mighty tired 
after such a terrible walk. The good old lady was very 
right; for what with his late loss of sleep, as also his fever 
and long walk in the rains, he was tired indeed; so he glad¬ 
ly consented to stay with her and rest himself. Having 
shown him a small room with a bed in it, for him to take a 
napifor she saw clear enough , she said, that he was a dying 
for sleep , she turned with a mother’s alacrity to get him 
something to eat. By and by she came again, and fiom a 


46 


THE LIFE OF 


short but refreshing doze, waked him up to a dinner o! 
hot beef-steaks, of which she pressed him to eat heartily . 
telling him that gingerbread was fit, only for children. While 
he was eating, she chatted with him in the affectionate spirit 
of an aged relative; she asked him a world of questions, such 
as how old he was—and what was his name —and whether 
his mother was alive—and how far he lived from Burling¬ 
ton? Ben told her every thing she asked him. He told her 
his name and age. He also told her that his mother was 
alive, and that he had left her only seven days ago in Boston, 
where she lived. The old lady could hardly believe him 
that he ever came from Boston. She lifted up her hands, 
and stared at him as though he had told her he had just 
dropped from the North Star. From Boston! said she with 
a scream, now only to think of that! O dear , only to think of 
that! And then, 0 how she pitied his mother. Poor dear 
soul! She, all the way yonder in Boston, and such a sweet 
looking, innocent child, wandering here at such a distance 
by himself: how could she stand it? 

Ben told her that it was a great affliction to be sure; but 
could not be helped. That his mother was a poor woman, 
with sixteen children, and that he the youngest boy of all, 
was obliged to leave her to seek his livelihood, which he 
hoped he should find in Philadelphia, at his trade, which 
was that of a printer. 

On hearing that he was a printer, she was quite delighted 
and pressed him to come and set up in Burlington, for that 
she would be bound for it he would do mighty well there. 
Ben told her that it was a costly thing to set up printing; 
that it would take two hundred pounds, and he had not two 
hundred pence. 

Well then, said she, now that you have got no money, it will 
give me more pleasure to have you stay with me till you can 
get a good opportunity to go to Philadelphia. I feel for your 
poor mother, and I know it would give her such a pleasure 
if she knew you were here with me. 

Soon as Ben had enjoyed his beef-steaks, which he did in 
high style, having the double sauce of his own good appe¬ 
tite and her motherly welcome, he drew out his last dollar 
to pay the good old lady. But she told him to put it up , put 
it up, for she would not take a penny of it. Ben told her 
that he was young and able to work, and hoped to do well when 
he got into business, and therefore could not bear that she who 
was getting old and weak should entertain him for nothing. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


47 


Well, said she, never mind that , child , never mind that. I 
shall never miss what little Ilay out in entertaining you while 
you stay with me. So put up your money. However, while 
she was busied in putting away the dishes, he slipped out 
and got a pint of ale for her: and it was all that he could 
prevail on her to accept. 

From the pleasure with which Ben ever afterwards spoke 
of this good old woman, and her kindness to him, a poor 
strange boy, I am persuaded as indeed I have always been, 
that there is nothing on which men reflect with so much com¬ 
placency as on doing or receiving offices of love from one 
another. 

Ben has not left us the name of this good old woman, nor 
the sect of Christians to which she belonged. But it is proba¬ 
ble she was a Quaker. Most of the people about Burlington 
in those days were Quakers. And besides such kindness as 
her’s seems to be more after the spirit of that wise people, 
who instead of wrangling about faith , which even devils pos¬ 
sess, give their chief care to that which is the end of all faith, 
and which the poor devils know nothing about, viz “ love 
and good works.” 


- CHAPTER XIV 

Ben now sat himself down to stay with this good old wo¬ 
man till the following Tuesday; but still Philadelphia was 
constantly before him, and happening, in the impatience of 
his mind, to take a stroll along the river side, he saw a boat 
approaching with a number of passengers in it. Where art 
you bound ? said he. 

To Philadelphia, was the reply. 

His heart leaped for joy. Can't you take a passenger 
aboard? I’ll help you to row. O yes, answered they, and 
bore up to receive him. With all his heart he would 
have run back to his good old hostess to bid her farewell, 
and to thank her for her kindness to him, but the boat could 
not wait; and carrying, tortoise-like, his all upon his back, 
m he stepped and went on with them to Philadelphia, where, 
after a whole night of hard rowing, they arrived about eight 
o’clock next morning, which happened to be Sunday. 

Soon as the boat struck the place of landing, which was 


48 


THE LIFE OF 


Market-street wharf, Ben put his hand into his pocket, and 
asked, what was the damage. The boatmen shook their 
heads, and said, oh no; he had nothing to pay . They could 
never take pay from a young fellow of his spirit , who had so 
cheerfully assisted them to row all the way. As his own stock 
now consisted of but one Dutch dollar, and about a shilling’s 
worth in coppers, he would have been well content to ac¬ 
cept his passage on their own friendly terms; but seeing one 
of their crew who appeared to be old, and rather poorly 
dressed, he hauled out his coppers and gave them all to him. 
Having shaken hands with these honest-hearted fellows, he 
leaped ashore and walked up Market-street in search of 
something to appease his appetite, which was now abun¬ 
dantly keen from twenty miles’ rowing and a cold night’s 
air. He had gone but a short distance before he met a child 
bearing in his arms that most welcome of all sights to a 
hungry man, a fine loaf of bread. Ben eagerly asked him 
where he had got it. The child, turning around, lifted his 
little arm and pointing up the street, with great simplicity 
md sweetness said, don't you see that little house—that little 
white house , way up yonder ? 

Ben said, yes. 

Well then , continued the child, that's the baker's house; 
there's where my mammy sends me every morning to get bread 
for all we children. 

Ben blessed his sweet lips of innocence, and hastening to 
the house, boldly called for three pence worth of bread. The 
baker threw him down three large rolls. 

What, all this for three pence! asked Ben with surprise. 

Yes, all that for three pence, replied the baker with a fine 
yankee snap of the eye, all that for only three pence! Then 
measuring Ben from head to foot, he said with a sly quiz¬ 
zing sort of air, and pray now my little man where may you 
nave come from ? 

Here Ben felt his old panic, on the runaway servant score, 
returning strong upon him again. However, putting on a 
bold face, he promptly answered that he was from Boston. 

Plague on it replied the man cf dough, and why did’nt 
you tell me that at first; I might so easily have cabbaged you 
out of one whole penny; for you know you could not have 
got all that bread in Yankee-town for less than a good four- 
pence ? Very cheap, said Ben, three large rolls for three¬ 
pence; quite dog cheap ! So taking them up, began to stow 
them away in his pockets; but soon found it impossible for 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


49 


lack of room—so placing a roll under each arm, and break¬ 
ing the third, he began to eat as he walked along up Mai- 
ket-street. On the way he passed the house of that beauti¬ 
ful girl, Miss Deborah Read, who happening to be at the 
door, was so diverted at the droll figure he made, that she 
could not help laughing outright. And indeed no wonder. 
A stout fleshy boy, in his dirty working dress, and pockets 
all puckered out, with foul linen and stockings, and a 
loaf of bread under each arm, eating and gazing around him 
as he walked—no wonder she could not help laughing aloud 
at him as one of the greatest gawkies she had ever seen. 
Very little idea had she at that time that she was presently 
to be up to her eyes in love with this young gawky; and 
after many a deep sigh and heart-ache, was to marry him 
and to be made a great woman by him. And yet all this 
actually came to pass,* as we shall presently see, and we 
hope greatly to the comfort of all virtuous young men, who 
though they may sometimes be laughed at for their oddities; 
yet if, like Franklin, they will but stick to the main chance , 
i. e. Business and Education, they will assuredly, like 
him, overcome at the last, and render themselves the ad¬ 
miration of those who once despised them. 

But our youthful hero is in too interesting a part of the 
play for us to lose a moment’s sight of him; so after this 
short moral we turn our eyes on him again, as there, loaded 
with his bundles and his bread, and eating and gazing and 
turning the corners of the streets, he goes on without indeed 
knowing where he is going. At length, however, just as he 
had finished his first roll, his reverie was broken up by finding 
himself on Market-street wharf, and close to the very boat 
in which he had come from Burlington. The sight of the 
silver stream, as it whirled in dimpling eddies around the 
wharf, awakened his thirst; so stepping into the boat he took 
a hearty draught, which, to his unvitiated palate, tasted 
sweeter than ever did mint-sling to any young drunkard. 
Close by him in the boat sat a poor woman with a little 
ragged girl leaning on her lap. He asked her if she had 
breakfasted. With a sallow smile of hunger hoping relief, 
she replied no , for that she had nothing to eat. Upon this 
he gave her both his other loaves. At sight of this welcome 
supply of food, the poor woman and her child gave him a 
look which he never afterwards forgot. 

Having given, as we have seen, a tythe of his money in 
gratitude to the poot boatman, and two thirds of his bread 

6 


50 


THE LIFE OF 


in charity to this poor woman and her child, Ben skipped 
again upon the wharf, and with a heart, light and gay with 
conscious duty, a second time took up Market-street, which 
was now getting to be full of well-dressed people all going 
the same way He cut in, and following the line of 
march, was thus insensibly led to a large Quaker meeting¬ 
house. Sans ceremonie, he pushed in and sat down with 
the rest, and looking around him soon felt the motions , if 
not of a devout, yet of a pleasantly thoughtful spirit. It 
came to his recollection to have heard that people must go 
abroad to see strange things. And here it seemed to be 
verified. What, no pulpit! Whoever saw a meeting-house 
before without a pulpit? He could not for his life conceive 
where the preacher was to stand. But his attention was 
quickly turned from the meeting-house to the congregation, 
whose appearance, particularly that of the young females, 
delighted him exceedingly. Such simplicity of dress with 
such an air of purity and neatness! He had never seen 
any thing like it before, and yet all admirably suited to the 
gentle harmony of their looks. And then their eyes! for 
meekness and sweetness of expression, they looked like 
dove’s eyes. With a deep sigh he wished that his brother 
James and many others in Boston were but gentle and good 
as these people appeared to be. Young as he was, he 
thought the world would be a great deal the happier for it. 
As leaning back he indulged these soothing sentiments, with¬ 
out any sound of singing or preaching to disturb him, and 
tired nature’s soft languors stealing over him too, he sunk in¬ 
sensibly into sleep. We are not informed that lie was visiter 1 
during his slumber, by any of those benevolent spirits who once 
descended in the dreams of the youthful patriarch, as he slept 
in the pleasant plains of Bethel. But he tells us himself, that 
he was visited bv one of that benevolent sect in whose place 
of worship he had been overtaken by sleep. Waked by some 
hand on his shoulder that gently shook him, he opened his 
eyes, and lo! a female countenance about middle age and 
of enchanting sweetness, was smiling on him. Roused to a 
recollection of the impropriety he had been guilty of, he 
was too much confused to speak; but his reddened cheek? 
told her what he felt. But he had nothing to fear. Gently 
shaking her head, though without a frown, and with a voice 
ot music, she said to him 44 My son , thee ought not to sleep 
in meeting .” Then giving him the look of a mother as she 
went out, she bade him farewell. He followed her as well 


DR. FRANKLIN 


51 


as he could, and left the meeting-house much mortified at 
having been caught asleep in it; but deriving at the same 
time great pleasure from this circumstance, because it had 
furnished opportunity to the good Quaker lady to give him 
that motherly look. He felt it sweetly melting along hia 
soul as lie walked. O how different , thought he , that lock 
from the looks which my brother and the council men of 
Boston gave me, though 1 was younger, then and more an oh 
ject of sympathy! 

As he walked along the street, looking attentively in the 
face of every one he met, he saw a young Quaker with a 
fine countenance, whom he begged to tell him where a 
stranger might find a lodging. With a look and voice of 
great sweetness, the young Quaker said, they receive travel¬ 
lers here , but it is not a house that bears a good character; 
if thee will go with me, I will show thee a better one. 

This was the Crooked Billet , in Water-street. Directly 
after dinner, his drowsiness returning, he went to bed and 
slept, without waking till next morning. 

Having put himself in as decent a trim as he could, he 
waited on Mr. Bradford, the printer, who received him with 
great civility, and invited him to breakfast, but told him he 
was sorry he had no occasion for a journeyman. There is, 
however, continued he in a cheering manner, there is an¬ 
other printer here, of the name of Keimer, to whom if you 
wish it, l will introduce you. Perhaps he may want your 
services. 

Ben gratefully accepting the offer, away they went to Mr. 
Keimer’s. But alas, poor man! both he and his office put 
together, made no more than a miserable burlesque on 
printing. Only one press, and that old and damaged! only 
one font of types, and that nearly worn out! and only one 
set of letter cases, and that occupied by himself! and con¬ 
sequently no room for a journeyman. 

Here was a sad prospect for poor Ben—four hundred 
miles from home—not a dollar in his pocket—and no ap¬ 
pearance of any employment to get one.—But having, from 
iiis childhood, been accustomed to grapple with difficulties 
and to overcome them, Ben saw nothing here but another 
trial of his courage, and another opportunity for victory and 
triumph. 

As to Keimer, suspecting from his youthful appearance, 
that Ben could hardly understand any thing of the printing 
art, he slyly put a composing stick into his hand. Ben 


52 


THE LIFE OF 


saw his drift, and stepping to the letter cases, filled the sticK 
with sucli celerity and taste as struck Keimer with surprise, 
not without shame, that one so inferior in years should be 
so far his superior in professional skill. To complete this 
favourable impression, Ben modestly proposed to repair his 
old press.'—This offer being accepted, Ben instantly fell to 
work, and presently accomplished his undertaking in such a 
workman-like style, that Keimer could no longer restrain 
his feelings, but relaxing his rigid features into a smile of 
admiration, paid him several flattering compliments, and 
concluded with promising him, that though, for the present, 
he had no work on hand, yet he expected an abundance 
shortly, and then would be sure to send for him. 

In a few days Keimer was as good as his word; for having 
procured another set of letter cases, with a small pamphlet 
to print, he sent in all haste for Ben, and set him to work. 




CHAPTER XV. 

# 

As Keimer is to make a considerable figure in the early 
part of Ben’s life, it may gratify r the reader to be made ac¬ 
quainted with him. From the account given of him by Ben, 
who had the best opportunity to know, it appears that he 
possessed but little either of the amiable or estimable in his 
composition. A man he was of but slender talents—quite 
ignorant of the world—a wretched workman—and worse 
than all yet, utterly destitute of religion, and therefore very 
uneven and unhappy in his temper, and abundantly capable 
of playing the knave whenever he thought it for his interest, 
Among other evidences of his folly, he miserably envied hit 
brother printer, Bradford, as if the Almighty was not rich 
enough to maintain them both. He could not endure, that 
while working with him, Ben should stay at Bradford’s; so 
he took him away, and having no house of his own, he put 
him to board with Mr. Read, father of the young lady who 
of late had laughed so heartily at him for eating his rolls 
along the street. But Miss Deborah did not long continue 
in this mind. For on seeing the favourable change in his 
dress, and marking also the wittiness of his conversation, 
and above all, his close application to business, and the 
great respect paid him on that account bv her father, she 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


53 


felt a wonderful change in his favour, and in place of her 
foimer sneers, conceived those tender sentiments for him, 
which, as we shall see hereafter, accompanied her through life. 

Ben now began to contract acquaintance with all such 
young persons in Philadelphia as were fond of reading, and 
spent his evenings with them very agreeably: at the same 
time he picked up money by his industry, and being quite 
frugal, lived so happy, that except for his parents, he seldom 
ever thought of Boston nor felt any wish to see it. An af¬ 
fair, however, turned up, which sent him home much sooner 
than he expected. 

His brother-in-law, a captain Holmes, of a trading sloop 
from Boston to Delaware, happening at Newcastle to hear 
that Ben was in Philadelphia, wrote to him that his father 
was all but distracted on account of his sudden elopement 
from home, and assured him that if he would but return, 
which he earnestly pressed him to do, every thing should be 
settled to his satisfaction. Ben immediately unswered his 
letter, thanked him for his advice, and stated his reasons 
for quitting Boston, with a force and clearness that so 
highly delighted captain Holmes, that he showed it to all 
his acquaintance at Newcastle, and among the rest to sir 
William Keith, governor of the province, with whom he 
happened to dine. The governor read it, and appeared sur¬ 
prised when he learnt his age. 66 Why, this must be a young 
man of extraordinary talents, captain Holmes,” said the 
governor, “ very extraordinary talents indeed, and ought to 
be encouraged; we have no printer in Philadelphia now 
worth a fig, and if this young man will but set up, there is 
no doubt of his success. For my part, I will give him all 
the public business, and render him every other service in my 
power.” 

One day as Keimer and Ben were at work near the win¬ 
dow, they saw the governor and colonel French cross the 
street, and make directly for the printing-office. Keimer not 
doubting it was a visit to himself, hurried down stairs to meet 
them. The Governor taking no notice of Keimer, but eagerly 
inquiring for young Mr. Franklin, came up stairs, and with 
a condescension to which Ben had not been accustomed, in 
troduced himself to him—desired to become acquainted with 
•lim—and after obligingly reproaching him for not having 
made himself known when he first came to town, invited 
him to the tavern where he and colonel French were going to 

break a bottle of old Madeira. 

5 * 


54 


THE LIFE OF 


If Ben was surprised, old Keimer was thunderstruck. Ben 
went, however, with the governor and the colonel to the ta¬ 
vern, where, while the Madeira was circulating in cheerful 
bumpers, the governor proposed to him to set up a printing- 
office, stating at the same time the great chances of success, 
and promising that both himself and colonel French would 
use their influence in procuring for him the public printing 
of both governments. As Ben appeared to doubt whether 
his father would assist him in this enterprize, sir William 
said that he would give the old gentleman a letter, in which 
he would represent the advantages of the scheme in a light 
that would, he’d be bound, determine him in his favour. It 
was thus concluded that Ben should return to Boston by che 
first vessel, with the governor’s letter to good old Josias: in 
the mean time Ben was to continue with Keimer, from wh »m 
this project was to be kept a secret. 

The governor sent every now and then to invite Ben to 
dine with him, which he considered as a very great honour, 
especially as his excellency always received and conversed 
witli him in the most familiar manner. 

In April, 1724, Ben embarked for Boston, where, after a 
fortnight passage, he arrived in safety. Having been ab¬ 
sent seven months from his relatives, who had never heard a 
syllable of him all that time, his sudden appearance threw 
the family into a scream of joy, and excepting his sour-faced 
brother James, the whole squad gave him a most hearty wel¬ 
come. After much embracing and kissing, and some tears 
shed on both sides, as is usual at such meetings, Ben kindly 
inquired after his brother James , and went to see him at his 
printing-office, not without hopes of making a favourable 
impression on him by his dress, which was handsome far 
beyond what he had ever worn in his brother’s service; a 
complete suit of broad cloth, branding new—an elegant sil¬ 
ver watch and chain—and his purse crammed with nearly 
hve pound sterling—all in silver dollars. But it would not 
all do to win over James. Nor indeed is it to be wondered 
at; for in losing Ben he had lost a most cheerful, obliging 
lad, whose rare genius and industry in writing, printing, and 
selling his pamphlets and papers, had brought a noble grist 
to his mill. 

Ben’s parade therefore of his fine clothes, and watch, and 
silver dollars, only made things worse with James, serving 
but to make him the more sensible of his loss; so after eye- 
■ng him from head to foot with a da? k side-long look, he 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


55 


turned again to his work without saying a syllable to him. 
The behaviour of his own journeymen contributed still the 
more to anger poor James: tor instead of taking part with him 
in his prejudices against Ben, they all appeared quite de¬ 
lighted with him; and breaking oft’ from their work and 
gathering around him, with looks full of curiosity, they ask¬ 
ed him a world of questions. 

Philadelphia ! said they, 0 dear! have you been all tlu 
way there to Philadelphia! 

B<m said, yes. 

\\ hy Philadelphia must be a tarnal nation way off! 

Four hundred miles, said Ben. 

At this they stared on him in silent wonder, for having 
been four hundred miles from Boston! 

And so they have got a printing-office in Philadelphia! 

Two or three of them, said Ben. 

0 la! why that will starve us all here in Boston. 

Not at all, said Ben: their advertising 46 lostpocket books ” 
— 44 runaway servants ” and 44 stray cows ” in Philadelphia, 
can no more starve you here in Boston, than the catfish of 
Delaware, by picking up a few soft-crabs there, can starve 
our catfish here in Boston harbour. The world’s big enough 
for us all. 

Well, I wonder now if they have any such thing as mo- 
ney in Philadelphia? 

Ben thrust his hand into his pocket and brought up a whole 
fist full of dollars! 

The dazzling silver struck them all speechless—gaping 
and gazing at him and each other. Poor fellows, they had 
never, at once, seen so much of that precious metal in Bos¬ 
ton: the money there being nothing but a poor paper proc. 

To keep up their stare, Ben drew his silver watch, which 
soon had to take the rounds among them, every one insist¬ 
ing to have a look at it. Then, to crown all, he gave them 
a shilling to drink his health; and after telling them what 
great things lay before them if they would but continue in¬ 
dustrious and prudent , and make themselves masters of their 
trade , he went back to the house. 

This visit to the office stung poor James to the quick; for 
when his mother spoke to him of a reconciliation with Ben, 
and said how happy she should be to see them like brothers 
again before she died, he flew into a passion and told her 
such a thing would never be, for that Ben had so insulted 
tjim before his men that he would never forgive nor forget 


56 


THE UFE OF 


it as long as he lived. But Ben had the satisfaction to live 
to see that James was no prophet. For when James, many 
years after this, fell behind hand and got quite low in the 
world, Ben lent him money, and was a steady friend to him 
and his family all the days of his life. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

But we have said nothing yet about the main object of 
Ben’s sudden return to Boston, i. e. governor Keith’s lettei 
to his father, on the grand project of setting him up as a 
printer in Philadelphia. The reader has been told that all 
the family, his brother James excepted, were greatly re¬ 
joiced to see Ben again. But among them all there was none 
whose heart felt half such joy as did that of his father. He had 
always doted on this young son, as one whose rare genius and 
unconquerable industry, if but conducted by prudence, would 
assuredly, one day, lead him to greatness. His sudden elope¬ 
ment, as we have seen, had greatly distressed the old man, 
especially as he was under the impression that he was gone 
to sea. And when he remembered how few that go out at 
his young and inexperienced age, ever return better than 
blackguards and vagabonds, his heart sickened within him, 
and he was almost ready to wish he had never lived to feel 
the pangs of such bitter disappointment in a child so be¬ 
loved. He counted the days of Ben’s absence; by nignt his 
sleep departed from his eyes for thinking of his son; and all 
day long whenever he heard a rapping at the door, his heart 
would leap with expectation: “ who knows,” he would say to 
himself, “ but this may be my child?” And although he would 
feel disappointed when he saw it was not Ben who rapped, 
yet he was afraid, at times, to see him lest he should see 
him covered with the marks of dishonour. Who can tell 
what this anxious father felt when he saw his son return as 
he did? Not in the mean apparel and sneaking looks of a 
drunkard, but in a dress far more genteel than he himself 
had ever been able to put on him; while his beloved cheeks 
were fresh with temperance, and his eyes bright with inno¬ 
cence and conscious well doing. Imagination dwells with 
pleasure on the tender scene that marked that meeting, 
where the withered cheeks of seventy and the florid bloom 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


57 


of seventeen met together in the eager embrace of parental 
affection and filial gratitude. 

44 God bless my son!” the sobbing sire he sigh’d. 

44 God bless my sire!” that pious son replied. 

Soon as the happy father could recover his articulation, 
with great tenderness he said, “but how, my beloved boj 
could you give me the. pain to leave me as you did?” 

44 Why you know, my dear father,” replied Ben, 44 that i 
could not live with my brother; nor would he let me live with 
the other printers; and as l could not bear the thought of living 
on an aged father now that I was able to work for myself, 
I determined to leave Boston and seek my fortune abroad. 
And knowing that if I but hinted my intentions you would 
prevent me, I thought I would leave you as 1 did.” 

44 But why, my son, did you keep me so long unhappy 
about your fate, and not write to me sooner ?” 

44 1 knew, father, what a deep interest you took in my wel¬ 
fare, and therefore I resolved never to write to you until by 
my own industry and economy I had got myself into such a 
state, that I could write to you with pleasure. This state I 
did not attain till lately. And just as I was agoing to write 
to you, a strange affair took place that decided me to come 
ind see you, rather than write to you.” 

44 Strange affair! what can that mean, my son ?” 

44 Why, sir, tire governor of Pennsylvania, sir William 
Keith—I dare say, father, you have often heard of governor 
Keith ?” 

44 1 may have heard of him, child—I’m not positive—but 
what of governor Keith?” 

44 Why he has taken a wonderful liking to me, father!” 

44 Aye! has he so?” said the old man, with joy sparkling 
m his eyes. 44 Well I pray God you may be grateful for 
such favours, my son, and make a good use of them!” 

44 Yes, father, he has taken a great liking to me sure 
enough; he says I am the only one in Philadelphia who 
knows any thing about printing; and he says too, that if I 
will only come and set up in Philadelphia, he will make my 
fortune for me in a trice!!” 

Old Josias here shook his head; 44 No, no, Ben!” said he, 
44 that will never do: that will never do: you are too young 
yet, child, for all that, a great deal too young.” 

44 So I told him, father, that I was too young. And I told 
him too that I was certain you w r ould never give vour con 
sent to it.” 


58 


THE LIFE OF 


“You were right there, Ben ; no indeed, I could nevei 
give my consent to it, that’s certain.” 

44 So I told the governor, father; but still he would have 
it there was a fine opening in Philadelphia, and that I would 
fill it so exactly, that nothing could be wanting to insure 
your approbation but a clear understanding of it. And to 
that end lie has w r ritten you a letter.” 

“A letter, child! a letter from governor Keith to me!” 

44 Yes, father, here it is.” 

With great eagerness the old gentleman took it from Ben; 
and drawing his spectacles, read it over and over again with 
much eagerness. When he was done he lifted his eyes to 
heaven, while in the motion of his lips and change of coun¬ 
tenance, Ben could clearly see that the soul of his father 
was breathing an ejaculation of praise to God on his account. 
Soon as his Te Deiir/i was finished, he turned to Ben with 
a countenance bright with holy joy, and said, 44 Ben, I’ve 
cause to be happy; my son, I’ve cause to be happy indeed. 
0 how differently have tilings turned out with you! God’s 
blessed name be praised for it, how differently have they 
turned out to what I dreaded! I was afraid you were gone 
a poor vagabond, on the seas ; but instead of that you had 
fixed yourself in one of the finest cities in the country. I 
was afraid to see you; yes, my dear child, I was afraid to 
see you, lest I should see you clad in the mean garb of a 
poor sailor boy; but here I behold you clad in the dress of a 
gentleman! I trembled lest you had been degrading yourself 
into the low company of the profane and worthless; and lo! 
you have been all the time exalting yourself into the high so¬ 
ciety of great men and governors. And all this in so short a 
time, and in a way most honourable to yourself, and therefore 
most delightful to me, I mean by your virtues and your close 
attention to the duties of a most useful profession. Go on, my 
son, go on! and may God Almighty, who has given you wis¬ 
dom to begin so glorious a course,grant you fortitude to per¬ 
severe in it!” 

Ben thanked his father for the continuance of his love and 
solicitude for him; and he told him moreover, that one princi¬ 
pal thing that had stirred him up to act as he had done, was 
the joy which he knew he should be giving him thereby; as 
also the great trouble which he knew a contrary conduct 
would have brought upon him. Here his father tenderly 
embraced him, and said, 44 Blessed be God for giving me 
such a son! I have always, Ben, fed myself with hopes of 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


5i* 

great things from you. And now I have the joy to say my 
nopes were not in vain. Yes, glory to God, 1 trust my precious 
hopes of you were not in vain.” Then, after making a short 
pause, as Irom fullness of joy, he went on, “but as to this 
letter, my son; this same letter here from governor Keith; 
though nothing was ever more flattering to you, yet depend 
upon it, Ben, it will never do; at least not yet awhile.—The 
duties of the place are too numerous, child, and difficult for 
any but one who has had many more years of experience 
than you have had.” 

44 Well then, father, what’s to be done, for I know that the 
governor is so very anxious to get me into this place, that 
he will hardly be said nay ?” 

44 Why, my dear boy, we must still decline it, for all that: 
not only because from your very unripe age and inexperience, 
it may involve you in ruin; but also because it actually is 
not in your power. It is true the governor, from his letter, 
appears to have the greatest friendship in the world for you; 
but yet, it is not to be expected that he would advance funds 
to set you up. 0 no, my dear boy, that’s entirely out of 
the question. The governor, though perhaps rich, has no 
doubt too many poor friends and relations hanging on him, 
for you to expect any thing from that quarter. And as to 
myself, Ben, with all my love for you, it is not in my power 
to assist you in such an affair. My family you know, is very 
large, and the profits of my trade but small, insomuch that 
at the end of the year there is nothing left. And indeed 
I never can be sufficiently thankful to God for that health 
and blessing which enables me to feed and clothe them every 
year so plentifully.” 

Seeing Ben look rather serious, the old gentleman, in a 
livelier tone, resumed his speech, “Yes, Ben, all this is very 
true; but yet let us not be disheartened. Although we have 
no funds now, yet a noble supply is at hand.” 

“ Where, father,” said Ben, roused up, “ where?” 

“ Why, in your own virtues, Ben, in your own virtues, 
my boy—There are the noblest funds that God can bestow 
on a young man. All other funds may easily be drained by 
our vices and leave us poor indeed. But the virtues are 
fountains that never fail: they are indeed the true riches 
and honours, only by other names. Only persevere, my 
son, in the virtues, as you have already so bravely begun, 
and the grand object is gained. By the time you read* 
twenty-one, for every friend that you now have, you wil 


60 


THE LIFE OF 


nave ten; and for every dollar an hundred; and with these 
you will make thousands more. Thus, under God, you wili 
have the glory to be the artificer of your own fame and for¬ 
tune: anu that will bring ten thousand times more honour 
and happiness, to you, Ben, than all the money that gover¬ 
nors and fathers could ever give you.” 

Ben’s countenance brightened as his father uttered this 5 
then heaving a deep sigh, as of strong hope that such great 
things might one day be realized, he said, “Well father, God 
only knows what 1 am to come to; but this I know, that 1 
feel in myself a determination to do my best.” 

“I believe you do, my son, and I thank God most heartily 
that I have such good reason to believe you do. And when 
I consider, on the one hand, what a fine field for fame and 
fortune this new country presents to young men of talents 
and enterprise: and on the other hand, what wonders you, 
a poor unknown and unfriended boy have done in Philadel¬ 
phia, in only six months, I feel transported at the thought 
of what you may yet attain before my gray hairs descend to 
the grave. Who knows, Ben, for God is good, my son, 
who knows but that a fate like that of young Joseph, whom 
his brethren drove into Egypt, may be in reserve for your 
And who knows but that old Jacob’s joys may be mine? that 
like him, after all my anxieties on your account, I may yet 
hear the name of my youngest son, my beloved Benjamin, 
coming up from the South, perfumed with praise for his 
great virtues and services to his country? Then when I 
hear the sound of his fame rising from that distant land, like 
the pleasant thunders of summer before refreshing showers, 
and remember how he used to stand a little prattling boy 
by my side, in his rosy cheeks and flaxen locks filling the 
candle moulds, or twisting the snow white cotton wicks with 
nis tender fingers, 0 how will such remembrance lighten 
up the dark evening of my days, and cause my setting sun 
to go down in joy!” 

He spoke this in tones so melting, that Ben, who was sit¬ 
ting by his father’s side, fell with his face on his bosom, 
without saying a word. The fond parent, hearing him sob, 
tenderly embraced him, and with a voice broken with sighs, 
w r ent on, “Yes, my son, the measure of my joys will then 
be full. I shall have nothing to detain me any longer in this 
vale of troubles, but shall gladly breathe out my life in praise 
to God for this ivs last, his crowning act of goodness—foi 
this his blessing me in my son.” 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


61 


After a moment’s pause, the feelings of both being too 
deliciously affected for speech, Ben gently raised his face 
from his father’s bosom, and with his eyes yet red and wet 
with tears, tenderly looking at him, said, 44 1 would to God, 
father, you would go and live in Philadelphia.” 

44 Why so, my son?” 

44 Because, I don’t want ever to part with you, father, 
and I am, you know, obliged to go back to Philadelphia im¬ 
mediately.” 

44 Not immediately, my son, I cannot let you go from me 
immediately.” 

44 Father, I would never go from you, if I could help it; 
but I must be doing something to make good your fond hopes 
of me; and I can’t stay here.” 

44 Why not, my son?” 

44 Father, I can’t stay with those who hate me; and you 
know that brother James hates me very much.” 

44 0! he does not hate you, I hope, my son.” 

“Yes, he does, father, indeed he does; because I only 
differed from him in opinion and ventured to reason with 
him, he kindled into passion and abused me even to blows , 
though I was in the right, as you told him afterwards. And 
because I told him I did not think he acted the part of a bro¬ 
ther by me in wishing to make me a slave so many years, he 
went about town and set all the printers against me, and 
thus drove me away from home, and from you, my father, 
whom I so much love. And just now, when I went to his 
oflice to see him, instead of running to meet me and rejoicing 
to see me returned safe and sound and so well dressed and 
a plenty of money in my pocket, he would not even speak 
to me, but looked as dark and angry as though he would have 
torn me to pieces. And yet he can turn up his eyes, and 
make long prayers and graces, and talk a great deal about 
Jesus Christ!” 

The old man here shook his head with a deep groan, while 
Ben thus went on, 44 No, father, I can’t stay here; I must be 
going back to Philadelphia and to my good friend governor 
Keith; for I long to be realizing all the great hopes that you 
have been forming of me. And should God but give me a 
good settlement in Philadelphia, then you will come and 
live with me. O say, my father, wont you come arid live 
with me?” 

Ben spoke this, looking up to his father with that joy of 

6 


62 


THE LIFE OF 


filial love sparkling in his youthful eyes which made him look 
like all that we fancy of angels. 

The old man embraced him and said, “ I will, my son, I 
will; but stay with me a little while, at the least three days, 
and then you may depart.” Ben consenting to this, the old 
gentleman wrote a polite letter to governor Keith, thanking 
nim very heartily for that he, so great a man, should have 
paid such attentions to his poor boy: but at the same time 
begged his pardon for declining to do any thing for him, not 
only because he had very little in his power to do; but also 
because he thought him too young to be intrusted with the 
conduct of an enterprise that required much more experience 
than he possessed. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

Of the three days which Ben, as we have seen above, had 
consented to stay at home, he spent the chiefest part with 
his father, in his old candle manufactory. ’Tis true, this 
nappy sire, whose natural affection for Ben as a son , was 
now exalted into the highest respect for him as a youth of 
talents and virtues; and perhaps too, looking up to him as a 
young mountain oak, whose towering arms would soon pro¬ 
tect the parent tree, insisted that Ben should not stay in that 
dirty place , as he called it. But knowing that his father 
could not be spared from his daily labour, Ben insisted to be 
with him in the old shop, and to assist in his labours, re¬ 
minding his father how sweetly the time passes away when 
at work and conversing with those we love. His father at 
length consented: and those three days, now spent with Ben, 
were the happiest days he had spent for a long time. His 
aged bosom was now relieved from his six months’ load of 
fears and anxieties about this beloved child; nor only so, 
bu ; this beloved child, shining in a light of his own virtues, 
was now with him, and as a volunteer of filial love was min¬ 
gling in his toils—eagerly lending his youthful strength to 
assist him in packing and boxing his candles and soap; 
while his sensible conversation, heightened all the time 
by the charm of that voice and those eyes that had ever 
been so dear to him, touched his heart with a sweetness in 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


63 


expressible, and made the happy hours fly away as on angels’ 
wings. 

On the afternoon of the third day, as they were returning 
from dinner, walking down the garden, at the foot of which 
the factory stood, the old gentleman lifting his eyes to the 
sun, suddenly heaved a deep sigh and put on a melancholy 
look. 

44 High, father!” said Ben, 44 I see no cloud over the sun 
that we should fear a change of weather.” 

44 No, Ben, there is no cloud over the sun, but still his 
beams throw a cloud over my spirits. They put me in mind 
that l shall walk here to-morrow, but with no son by my 
side!” 

The idea was mournful: and more so by the tender look 
and plaintive tones in which it was conveyed.—It wrung the 
heart of Ben, who in silence glanced his eyes on his father. 
It was that tender glance of sorrowing love which quick¬ 
est reaches the heart and stirs up all its yearnings. The 
old gentleman felt the meaning of his son’s looks. They 
seemed to say to him, 44 0 my father , must we part to-mor¬ 
row ?” 

44 Yes, Ben, we part to-morrow, and perhaps never to meet 
again!” 

After a short pause, with a sigh, he thus resumed his 
speech— 44 Then, O my son, what a wretch were man with¬ 
out religion? Yes, Ben, without the hopes of immortality, 
how much better he had never been born? Without the.se, 
his noblest capacities were but the greater curses. The more 
delightful his friendships the more dreadful the thought 
they may be extinguished for ever; and the gayer his pros¬ 
pects the deeper his gloom, that endless darkness may so 
quickly cover all. We were yesterday feeding fond hopes, my 
son; we were yesterday painting bright castles in the air: 
you were to be a great man and I a happy father. But alas! 
this is the last day, my child, that we may ever see each 
other again. And the sad reverse of all this may even now 
be at the door; when I, instead of hearing of my son’s glory 
in Philadelphia, may hear that he is cold in his grave. 
And when you, returning—after years of virtuous toils, re¬ 
turning laden with riches and honours for your happy fathei 
to share in, may see nothing of that father but the tomb thal 
covers his dust.” 

Seeing the moisture in Ben’s eyes, the old gentleman, 
with a voice rising to exultation, thus went on, 44 Yes, Ben- 


64 


THE LIFE OF 


this may soon be the case with us, my child; the dark cur¬ 
tain of our separation soon may drop , and your cheeks or 
mine be flooded with sorrows. Hut thanks be to God, that 
curtain will rise again, and open to our view those scenes 
of happiness, one glance at which is sufficient to start the 
tear of transport into our eyes. Yes, Ben, religion assures 
us of all this; religion assures us that this life is but the 
morning of our existence—that there is a glorious eternity 
beyond—and that to the penitent, death is but the passage to 
that happy life where they shall soon meet again to part no 
more, but to congratulate their mutual felicities for ever 
Then, 0 my son, lay hold of religion, and secure an in¬ 
terest in those blessed hopes that contribute so much to the 
virtues and the joys of life.” 

44 Father,” said Ben with a sigh, 44 1 know that many peo¬ 
ple here in Boston think I never had any religion; or, that 
if I had I have apostatized from it.” 

“God forbid! But whence, my son, could these preju¬ 
dices have arisen?” 

44 Why, father, I have for some time past discovered that 
there is no effect without a cause. These prejudices have 
been the effect of my youthful errors. You remember fa¬ 
ther, the old story of the pork, don’t you?” 

44 No, child; what is it, for I have forgotten it?” 

44 I thought so, father, I thought you had been so good as 
to forget it. But I have not, nor ever shall forget it.” 

44 What is it, Ben?” 

44 Why, father, when our pork, one fall, lay salted and 
ready for the barrel, I begged you to say grace over it all at 
once; adding that it would do as well and save a great deal 
of time.” 

44 Pshaw,Ben, such a trifle as that, and in a child too, can¬ 
not be remembered against you now.” 

44 Yes, father, I am afraid it is. All are not so loving, 
and so forgetful of my errors as you. It was at the time in¬ 
serted in the Boston News Letter, and is now recollected 
to the discredit of my religion. And they have a prejudice 
against me on another account. While I lived with you, 
father, you always took me to meeting with you; but when 
l left you and went to live with my brother James, I often 
neglected going to meeting; preferring to stay at home and 
read my books.” 

44 1 am sorry to hear that, Ben; very sorrv that you could 
neglect the preachings of Christ.” 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


65 


*' 6 Father, l never neglected them. I look on the preach¬ 
ing of Christ as the finest system of morality in the world; 
and his parables, such as “The Prodigal Son—“the Good 
Samaritan”—“ the Lost Sheep,” &c. as models of divine 
goodness. And if I could only hear a preacher take these 
For his texts, and paint them in those rich colours they are 
capable of, I would never stay from meeting. But now, 
father, when I go, instead of those benevolent preachings 
and parables which Christ so delighted in, I hardly ever hear 
any thing but lean, chaffy discourses about the Trinity, 
and Baptisms, and Elections, and Reprobations, and 
Final Perseverances, and Covenants, and a thousand 
other such things which do not strike my fancy as religion 
at all, because not in the least calculated, as I think, to 
sweeten and ennoble men’s natures, and make them love and 
do good to one another.” 

“ There is too much truth in your remark, Ben; and l 
have often been sorry that our preachers lay such stress on 
these things, and do not stick closer to the preachings of 
Christ.” 

“ Stick closer to them, father! 0 no, to do them justice, 
sir, we must not charge them with not sticking to the text , 
for they never take Christ for their text, but some dark pas¬ 
sage out of the prophets or apostles, which will better suit 
their gloomy education. Or if they should, by some lucky hit, 
honour Christ for a text, they quickly give him the go-by 
and lug in Calvin or some other angry doctor; and then in 
place of the soft showers of Gospel pity on sinners, we have 
nothing but the dreadful thunderings of eternal hate, with 
the unavailing screams of little children in hell not a span 
long! Now, father, as I do not look on such preaching as 
this to be any ways pleasing to the Deity or profitable to 
man, I choose to stay at home and read my books; and this 
is the reason, I suppose, why my brother James and the 
council-men here of Boston think that I have no religion.” 

“ Your strictures on some of our ministers, my son, are 
in rather a strong style: but still there is too much truth in 
them to be denied. However, as to what your brother James 
and the council think of you, it is of little consequence, pro¬ 
vided you but possess true religion.” 

“Aye, True Religion, father, is another thing; and I 
snoukf like to possess it. But as to such religion as theirs, 

I must confess, father, I never had and never wish to 
have it.” 


06 


THE LIFE OF 


44 But what do you mean by their religion, my son?” 

44 Why, I mean, father, a religion of gloomy forms and 
notions, "that have no tendency to make men good and happy, 
either in themselves or to others.” 

44 So then, my son, you make marl’s happiness the end of 
religion.” 

44 Certainly I do, father.” 

44 Our catechisms, Ben, make God’s glory the end of re¬ 
ligion.” 

44 That amounts to the same thing, father; as the framers 
of the catechisms, I suppose, placed God’s glory in the hap¬ 
piness of man.” 

44 But why do you suppose that so readily, Ben?” 

44 Because, father, all wise workmen place their glory in 
the perfection of their works. The gunsmith glories in his 
rifle, when she never misses her aim; the clockmaker glories in 
his clock when she tells the time exactly. They thus glory, 
because their works answer the ends for which they were 
made. Now God, who is wiser than all workmen, had, no 
doubt, his ends in making man. But certainly he could not 
have made him with a view of getting any thing from him, 
seeing man has nothing to give. And as God, from his own 
infinite riches, has a boundless power to give; and from his 
infinite benevolence, must have an equal delight in giving, I 
can see no end so likely for his making man as to make him 
happy. I think, father, all this looks quite reasonable.” 

“ Why, yes, to be sure, Ben, it does look very reasonable 
indeed.” 

44 Well then, father, since all wise workmen glory in their 
works when they answer the ends for which they designed 
them,God must glory in the happiness of man, that being the 
end for which he made him.” 

44 This seems, indeed, Ben, to be perfectly agreeable to 
reason.” 

44 Yes, sir, not only to reason , but to nature too: for even 
nature, I think, father, in all her operations, clearly teaches 
that God must take an exceeding glory in our happiness; for 
what else could have led him to build for us such a noble 
world as this; adorned with so much beauty; stored with such 
treasures; peopled with so many fair creatures; and lighted 
up as it is with such gorgeous luminaries by day and 
night ?” 

44 1 am glad, my son, I touched on this subject of religion 
in the way I did; your mode of thinking and reasoning or* 




DR. FRANKLIN. 


97 


it pleases me greatly. But now taking all this for granted, 
what is still your idea of the true religion?” 

44 Why, father, if God thus places his glory in the happi¬ 
ness of man, does it not follow that the most acceptable 
thing that man can do for God, or in other words, that the 
true religion of man consists in his so living, as to attain the 
highest possible perfection and happiness of his nature, that 
being the chief end and glory of the Deity in creating him?” 

44 Well, but how is this to be done ?” 

“Certainly, father, by imitating the Deity.” 

44 By imitating him, child! but how are we to imitate 
him?” 

44 In his goodness, father.” 

44 But why do you pitch on his goodness rather than on 
any other of his attributes?” 

44 Because, father, this seems, evidently, the prince of all 
his other attributes, and greater than all.” 

44 Take care child, that you do not blaspheme. How can 
one of God’s attributes be greater than another, when all are 
infinite?” 

44 Why, father, must not that which moves be greater than 
that which is moved?” 

44 What am I to understand by that, Ben?” 

44 1 mean, father, that the power and wisdom of the Deity, 
though both unspeakably great, would probably stand still 
and do nothing for men, were they not moved to it by his 
goodness. His goodness then, which comes and puts his 
power and wisdom into motion, and thus fills heaven and 
earth with happiness, must be the greatest of all his attri¬ 
butes.” 

44 f don’t know what to say to that, Ben \ certainly his power 
and wisdom must be very great too.” 

44 Yes, father, they are very great indeed: but still they 
seem but subject to his greater benevolence which enlists them 
in its service and constantly gives them its own delightful 
work to do. For example, father, the wisdom and power of 
the Deity can do any thing, but his benevolence takes 
care that they shall do nothing but for good. The power 
and wisdom of the Deity could have made changes both in the 
earth and heavens widely different from their present state. 
They could, for instance, have placed the sun a great deal 
farther off’or a great deal nearer to us. But then in the first 
case we should have been frozen to icicles, and in the second 
scorched to cinders. The power of the Deity could have 


68 


THE LIFE OF 


given a tenfold force to the winds, but then no tree cou.d 
have stood on the land, and no ship could have sailed on th * 
seas. The power of the Deity could also have made changes 
as great in all other parts of nature; it could have made 
every fish as monstrous as a whale, every bird dreadful as the 
condor, every beast as vast as the elephant, and every tree as 
big as a mountain. But then it must strike every one that 
these changes would all have been utterly for the worse, ren 
dering these noble parts of nature comparatively useless to 
us.—I say the power of the Deity could have done ail this, 
and might have so done but for his benevolence, which would 
not allow such discords, but has, on the contrary, established 
all things on a scale of the exactest harmony with the con¬ 
venience and happiness of man. Now, for example, father, 
the sun, though placed at an enormous distance from us, is 
placed at the very distance he should be for. all the important 
purposes of light and heat; so that the earth and waters, neither 
frozen nor burnt, enjoy the temperature fittest for life and 
vegetation. Now the meadows are covered with grass; the 
fields with corn; the trees with leaves and fruits; present¬ 
ing a spectacle of universal beauty and plenty, feasting all 
senses and gladdening all hearts; while man, the favoured 
lord of aV, looking around him amidst the mingled singing of 
birds and skipping of beasts and leaping of fishes, is struck 
with wonder at the beauteous scenery, and gratefully ac¬ 
knowledges that benevolence is the darling attribute of the 
Deity.” 

66 1 thank God, my son, for giving you wisdom to reason 
in this way. But what is still your inference from all this, 
as to true religion?” 

“ Why, my dear father, my inference is still in confirma¬ 
tion of my first answer to your question relative to the true 
religion, that it consists in our imitating the Deity in his 
goodness. Every wise parent, wishing to allure his children 
to any particular virtue, is careful to set them the fairest 
examples of the same, as knowing that example is more pow¬ 
erful than precept. Now since the Deity, throughout all 
his works, so invariably employs his great power and wis¬ 
dom as the ministers of his benevolence to make his crea¬ 
tures happy, what can this be for but an example to us; 
teaching that if we wish to please him—the true end of all 
religion—we must imitate him in his moral goodness, which 
if we would but all do as steadily as he does, we should re- 
cal the golden age, and convert this world into Paradise ” 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


69 


• 4 All this looks very fair, Ben; but jet after all what are 
we to do without Faith ?” 

“Why, father, as to Faith, I cannot say; not knowing 
n.uch about it. But this I can say, that I am afraid of any 
substitutes to the moral character of the Deity. In short, 
sir, I don’t love the fig-leaf.” 

44 Fig-leaf! I don’t understand you, child: what do you 
mean by the fig-leaf?” 

44 W hy, father, we read in the Bible that soon as Adam 
had lost that true image of the Deity, his Moral Goodness, 
instead of striving to recover it again, he went and sewed 
fig-leaves together to cover himself with.” 

44 Stick to the point, child.” 

44 1 am to the point, father. I mean to say that as Adam 
sought a vain fig-leaf covering, rather than the imitation of 
the Deity in moral goodness, so his posterity have ever since 
been fond of running after fig-leaf substitutes.” 

44 Aye! well 1 should be glad to hear you explain a little 
on that head, lien.” 

44 Father, I don’t pretend to explain a subject I don’t un¬ 
derstand, but I find in Plutarch’s Lives and the Heathen 
Antiquities, which I rea,d in your old divinity library, and 
which no doubt give a true account of religion among the 
ancients, that when they were troubled on account of their 
crimes, they do not seem once to have thought of conciliating 
the Deity by reformation , and by acts of benevolence and 
goodness to be like him. No, they appear to have been too 
much enamoured of lust, and pride, and revenge, to relish 
moral goodness; such lessons were too much against the 
grain. But still something must be done to appease the Deity. 
'Veil then, since they could not sum up courage enough to 
attempt it by imitating his goodness, they would try it by 
coaxing his vanity—they would build him grand temples; 
and make him mighty sacrifices; and rich offerings. This I 
am told, father, was their fig-leaf.” 

44 Why this, I fear, Ben, is a true bill against the poor 
Heathens.” 

44 Well, I am sure, father, the Jews were equally fond ol 
the fig-leaf; as their own countrymen, the Prophets, are con¬ 
stantly charging them. Justice, Mercy, and Truth had, 
seems, no charms for them. They must have fig-leaf substi¬ 
tutes, such as tythings of mint , anise , and cummin , ar?«' 
making 4 long prayers in the streets ,’ and deep groaning? 
with 4 disfigured faces in the synagogues .’ If they )ut did 


70 


THE LIFE OF 


all this, then surely they must be Abraham’s children even 
though they devoured widows’ houses.” 

Here good old Josias groaned. 

“ Yes, father,” continued Ben, ‘‘and it were well if the 
rage for the fig-leaf stopped with the Jews and Heathens; but 
the Christians are just as fond of substitutes that may save 
them the labour of imitating the Deity in his moral goodness. 
It is true, the old Jewish hobbies, mint, anise, and cummin, 
are not the hobbies of Christians; but still, father, you are 
not to suppose that they are to be disheartened for all that. 
Oh no. They have got a hobby worth all of them put toge¬ 
ther—they have got Faith.” 

Here good old'Josias began to darken; and looking at Ben 
with great solemnity, said, “ I am afraid, my son, you do not 
treat this great article of our holy religion with sufficient 
reverence.” 

“ My dear father,” replied Ben eagerly, “I mean not 
the least reflection on Faith, but solely on those hypocrites 
who abuse it to countenance their vices and crimes.” 

“ 0 then, if that be your aim, go on, Ben, go on.” 

“ Well, sir, as I was saying, not only the Jews and Hea¬ 
thens, but the Christians also have their fig-leaf substitutes 
for Moral Goodness. Because Christ has said that so great 
is the Divine Clemency, that if even the worst of men will 
but have faith in it so as to repent and amend their lives by 
the golden law of ‘ love and good works ,’ they should be 
saved, many lazy Christians are fond of overlooking those 
excellent conditions 4 Love and Good works,’ which con¬ 
stitute the moral image of the Deity, and fix upon the word 
Faith for their salvation.” 

“ Well, but child, do you make no account of faith?” 

4 None, father, as a fig-leaf cloak of immorality.” 

“ But is not faith a great virtue in itself, and a qualifica¬ 
tion for heaven?” 

“ I think not, sir; I look on faith but. as a mean to begei 
that moral goodness , which, to me, appears to be the only 
qualification for Heaven.” 

“ I am astonished, child, to hear you say that faith is no* 
a virtue in itself.” 

“ Why, father, the Bible says for me in a thousand 
places 'Flie Bible says that faith without good ivorks is 
dead.” 

“ But does not the Bible, in a thousand places, say that 
without faith no man can please God?” 




DR. FRANKLIN. 


71 


44 Yes, father, ami for the best reason in the world; for 
who can ever hope to please the Deity without his moral 
image? and who would ever put himself to the trouble to 
cultivate the virtues which form that image, unless he had a 
belief that they were indispensible to the perfection and hap¬ 
piness of his nature r” 

44 So then, you look on faith as no virtue in itself, amt 
good for nothing unless it exalt men to the likeness of God?’* 

44 Yes, sir, as good for nothing unless it exalt us to the 
likeness of God—nay, as worse; as utterly vile and hypo¬ 
critical.” 

44 And perhaps you view in the same light the Imputed 
Righteousness, and the Sacraments of Baptism and the 
Lord’s Supper.” 

44 Yes, father, faith, imputed righteousness, sacraments, 
prayers, sermons; all, all I consider as mere barren tig-leaves 
which will yield no good unless they ripen into the fruits of 
Benevolence and Good Works.” 

44 Well, Ben, ’tis well that you have taken a turn to the 
printing business; for I don’t think, child, that if you had 
studied divinity, as your uncle Ben and myself once wished, 
you would ever have got a licence to preach.” 

44 No, father, I know that well enough; I know that 
many who think themsehes mighty good Christians, are for 
getting to heaven on easier terms than imitating the Deity 
in his moral goodness. To them, faith and imputed righte¬ 
ousness, and sacraments, and sour looks, are very convenient 
things. With a good stock of these they can easily manage 
matters so as to make a little morality go a great way. But 
1 am thinking they will have to back out of this error, other¬ 
wise they will make as bad a hand of their barren faith, as 
the poor Virginia negroes do of their boasted freedom.” 

44 God’s mercy, child, what do you mean by that?” 

44 Why, father, l am told that the Virginia negroes, like 
our faith-mongers, fond of ease and glad of soft substitutes to 
hard duties, are continually sighing for freedom; 4 O if they 
had but freedom! if they had but freedom! how happy should 
they be! They should not then be obliged to work any more. 
Freedom tvould do every thing for them. Freedom would 
spread soft beds for them , and heap their tables with roast 
pigs , squealing out , ‘come and eat me.’ Freedom would give 
them fine jackets, and rivers of grog , and mountains of se- 
gars and tobacco, without their sweating for it. ’ Well, by 
and by, they get their freedom; perhaps by running awav 


72 


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from their masters. And now see what great things has free¬ 
dom done for them. Why, as it is out of the question to 
think of work now they ar efree, they must give themselves 
up like gentlemen, to visiting, sleeping, and pastime. In a 
little time the curses of hunger and nakedness drive them 
to stealing and house-breaking, for which their backs are 
ploughed up at whipping-posts, or their necks snapped un¬ 
der the gallows 1 and all this because they must needs live 
easier than by honest labour, which would have crowned their 
days with character and comfort. So, father, it is, most exactly 
so it is, with too many of our Faith -mongers. They have 
not courage to practise those exalted virtues that would give 
them the moral likeness of the Deity. Oh no: they must 
get to heaven in some easier way. They have heard great 
things of faith. Faith, they are told, has done wonders for 
other people; why not for them? Accordingly they fall to 
work and after many a hard throe of fanaticism, they con¬ 
ceit they have got faith sure enough. And now they are 
happy. Like the poor Virginia negroes, they are clear of 
all moral working now: thank God they can get to heaven 
without it; yes, and may take some indulgences, by the 
way,into the bargain. If, as jovial fellows, they should waste 
their time and family substance in drinking rum and smok¬ 
ing tobacco, where’s the harm, an t they sound believers? If 
they should, as merchants , sand their sugar, or water their 
molasses, what great matter is that? Don’t they keep up 
family prayer? If, as men of honour, they should accept a 
challenge, and receive a shot in a duel, what of that? They 
have only to send for a priest, and take the sacrament. 
Thus, father, as freedom has proved the ruin of many a lazy 
Virginian negro, so I am afraid that such faith as this has 
made many an hypocritical Christian ten times more a child 
of the devil than he was before.” 

Good old Josias, who, while Ben was speaking at this rate, 
had appeared much agitated, sometimes frowning, sometimes 
smiling, here replied, with a deep sigh, u Yes, Ben, this is 
all too true to be denied: and a sad thing it is that mankind 
should be so ready, as you observe, to go to heaven in any 
other way than by imitating God in his moral likeness . But 
I rejoice in hope of you, my son, that painting this lamenta¬ 
ble depravity in such strong colours as you do, you will ever 
act on wiser and more magnanimous principles.” 

“ Father, I don’t affect to be better than other young men, 
vet l think I can safely say, that if I could get to heaven by 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


TA 
4 3 

playing the hypocrite I would not, while I have it in my 
choice to go thither by acquiring the virtues that would give 
me a resemblance to God. For to say nothing of the ex¬ 
ceeding honour of acquiring even the faintest resemblance 
of him, nor yet of the immense happiness which it must af¬ 
ford hereafter, I find that even here, and young as I am, the 
least step towards it, affords a greater pleasure than any thing 
es'se; indeed I find that there is so much more pleasure in 
getting knowledge to resemble the Creator, than in living in 
ignorance to resemble brutes; so much more pleasure in 
benevolence and doing good to resemble him, than in hate 
and doing harm to resemble demons, that I hope I shall al¬ 
ways have wisdom and fortitude sufficient even for my own 
sake, to spend my life in getting all the useful knowledge, 
and in doing all the little good I possibly can.” 

“ God Almighty confirm my son in the wise resolutions 
which his grace has enabled him thus early to form!” 

“ Yes, father, and besides all this, when I look towards 
futurity; when I consider the nature of that felicity which 
exists in heaven; that it is a felicity flowing from the smiles 
of the Deity on those excellent spirits whom his own ad¬ 
monitions have adorned with the virtues that resemble him¬ 
self; that the more perfect their virtues, the brighter will be 
his smiles upon them, with correspondent emanations of bliss 
that may, for aught we know, be for ever enlarged with their 
ever enlarging understandings and affections; I say, father, 
when I have it in my choice to attain to all this in a way so 
pleasant and honourable as that of imitating the Deity in 
wisdom and goodness, should I not be worse than mad to 
decline it on such terms, and prefer substitutes that would 
tolerate me in ignorance and vice?” 

“Yes, child, 1 think you would be mad iadeed.” 

“ Yes, father, especially when it is recollected, that if the 
ignorant and vicious could, with all their pains, find out 
substitutes that would serve as passports to heaven, they 
could not rationally expect a hearty welcome there. For as 
the Deity delights in the wise and good, because they re¬ 
semble him in those qualities which render him so amiable 
and happy, and would render all his creatures so too; so he 
must proportionably abhor the sTuriD and vicious, because 
deformed with qualities diametrically opposite to his own, 
and tending to moke both themselves and others most vile 
and miserable.” 

“ This is awfully true. Den; for the Bible tells us. that 


74 


THE LIFE OF 


the wicked are an abomination to the Lord; but that tht 
righteous are his delight. ” 

44 Yes, father, and this is the language not only of (he 
Bible, which is, perhaps, the grand class book of the Deity, 
but it is also the language of his first or horn book, I mean 
reason, which teaches, that if 4 there be a God , and that 
there is all nature cries aloud through all her works , he must 
delight in virtue ,’ because most clearly conducive to the per¬ 
fection of mankind; which must be the chief aim and glory 
of the Deity in creating them. And for the same reason he 
must abhor vice, because tending to the disgrace and de¬ 
struction of his creatures. Hence, father, I think it follows 
as clearly as a demonstration in mathematics, that if it were 
possible for bad men, through faith , imputed righteousness , 
or any other leaf-covering, to get to Paradise, so far from 
meeting with any thing like cordiality from the Deity, they 
would be struck speechless at sight of their horrible dissimi¬ 
larity to him. For while he delights above all things in giv¬ 
ing life, and the duellist glories in destroying it; while he 
delights in heaping his creatures with good things; and the 
gambler triumphs in stripping them; while he delights in 
seeing love and smiles among brethren, and the slanderer in 
promoting strifes and hatreds; while he delights in exalting 
the intellectual and moral faculties to the highest degree of 
neavenly wisdom and virtue, and the drunkard delights in 
polluting and degrading both below the brutes; what cordi¬ 
ality can ever subsist between such opposite natures? Can 
infinite purity and benevolence behold such monsters with 
complacency, or could they in his presence otherwise than 
be filled with intolerable pain and anguish, and fly away as 
weak-eved owls from the blaze of the meridian sun r” 

44 Well, Ben, as I said before, I am richly rewarded for 
naving drawn you into this conversation about religion; your 
language indeed is not always the language of the scrip¬ 
tures; neither do you rest your hopes, as I could have wish¬ 
ed, on the Redeemer; but still your idea in placing our quali¬ 
fication for heaven in resembling God in moral goodness , is 
truly evangelical, and I hope you will one day become a great 
Christian.” 

44 1 thank you, father, for your good wishes; but I am afraid 
I shall never be the Christian you wish me to be.” 

44 What, not a Christian!” 

44 No, father, at least not in the name; but in the nature 
l hope to become a Christian. And'now, father, as we part 


75 


DR. FRANKLIN. 

• 

to morrow, and there is a strong presentiment on my mind 
that it may be a long time before we meet again, I beg you 
to believe ot me that I shall never lose sight of my great 
obligations to an active pursuit of knowledge and usefulness. 
This, if persevered in, will give me some humble resemblance 
of the great Author of my being in loving and doing all the 
good I can to mankind. And then, if I live, I hope, my dear 
father, I shall give you the joy to see realized some of the 
fond expectations you have formed of me. And if I should 
die, I shall die in hope of meeting you in some better world, 
where you will no more be alarmed for my welfare, nor I 
grieved to see you conflicting with age and labour and sor¬ 
row: but where we may see in each other all that we can 
conceive of what we call Angels, and in scenes of unde¬ 
served splendour, dwell with those enlightened and bene¬ 
volent spirits, whose conversation and perfect virtues, will 
for ever delight us. And where, to crown all, we shall perhaps, 
at times, be permitted to see that unutterable Being, 
whose disinterested goodness was the spring of all these 
felicities. ” 

Thus ended this curious dialogue, between one of the most 
amiable parents, and one of the most acute and sagacious 
youths that our country, or perhaps any other has ever pro¬ 
duced. 


—© 0H « »»■■■ 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

The three days of Ben’s promised stay witn his father 
being expired, the next morning he embraced his parents and 
embarked a second time for Philadelphia, but with a much 
lighter heart than before, because he now left home with his 
parents’ blessing, which they gave him the more willingly as 
from the dark sanctified frown on poor James’ brow they 
saw in him no disposition towards reconciliation. 

The vessel happening to touch at Newport, Ben gladly 
took that opportunity to visit his favourite brother John, who 
received him with great joy. John was always of the mind 
that Ben would one day or other become a great man; 66 he 
was so vastly fond,” he said, “ of his book.” 

And when lie saw the elegant size that Ben’s person had 
now attained, and also his fine mind-illuminated face and 


*6 


THE LIFE OF 


manly wit, he was so proud of him that he could not rest 
until he had introduced him to all his friends. Among the rest 
was a gentleman of the name of Vernon, who was so pleased 
with Ben during an evening’s visit at his brother’s, that he 
gave him an order on a man in Pennsylvania for thirty 
pounds, which he begged he would collect for him. Ben 
readily accepted the order, not without being secretly pleased 
that nature had given him a face which this stranger had so 
readily credited with thirty pounds. 

Caressed by his brother John and by his brother John’s 
friends, Ben often thought that if he were called on to point 
out the time in his whole life that had been spent more 
pleasantly than the rest, he would, without hesitation, pitch 
on this his three days’ visit to Newport. 

But alas! he has soon brought to cry out with the poet, 

“The brightest things beneath the sky, 

Yield but a glimmering light; 

We should suspect some danger nigh , 

Where we possess delight.'" 

His thirty pound order from Vernon, was at first lanked 
among his dear honied delights enjoyed at Newport; but it 
soon presented, as we shall see, a roughsting. This however, 
was but a flea bite in comparison of that mortal wound he 
was within an ace of receiving from this same Newport trip. 
The story is this: Among a considerable cargo of live lum¬ 
ber which they took on board for Philadelphia, were three 
females, a couple of gay young damsels, and a grave old 
Quaker lady. Following the natural bent of his disposition, 
Ben paid great attention to the old Quaker. Fortunate was it 
for him that he did; for in consequence of it she took a mother¬ 
ly interest in his welfare that saved him from a very ugly 
scrape. Perceiving that he was getting rather too fond of 
the two young women above, she drew him aside one day, 
and with the looks and speech of a mother, said, 66 Young 
man, I am in pain for thee: thou hast no parent to watch 
over thy conduct, and thou seemest to be quite ignorant of 
the world and the snares to which youth is exposed. I pray 
thee rely upon what 1 tell thee.—These are women of bad 
character; I perceive it in all their actions. If thou dost 
not take care they will lead thee into danger!!” 

As he appeared at first not to think so ill of them as she 
did, the old lady related of them many things she had seen 
and heard, and which had escaped his attention, but which 
convinced him she was in the right. He thanked her foi 
such good advice, and promised to follow it. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


77 


On their arrival at New-York the girls told him where 
they lived, and invited him to come and see them. Their 
eyes kindled such a glow along his youthful veins that he 
was on the point of melting into consent. But the motherly 
advice of his old quaker friend happily coming to his aid, 
revived his wavering virtue, and fixed him in the resolution, 
though much against the grain, not to go. It was a most 
blessed thing for him that he did not; for the captain miss¬ 
ing a silver spoon and some other things from the cabin, and 
knowing these women to be prostitutes, procured a search 
warrant, and finding his goods in their possession, had them 
brought to the whipping-post. 

As God would have it, Ben happened to fall in with the 
constable and crowd who were taking them to whip. He 
would fain have run oft’. But there was a drawing of sym¬ 
pathy towards them which he could not resist: so on he went 
with the rest. He said afterwards that it was well he did: 
for when he beheld these poor devils tied up to the stake, 
and also their sweet faces distorted with terror and pain, and 
heard their piteous screams under the strokes of the cow¬ 
hide on their bleeding backs, he could not help melting into 
tears, at the same time saying to himself—now had I but 
yielded to the allurements of these poor creatures , and made 
myself an accessary to their crimes and sufferings , whai 
would now be my feelings 

From the happy escape which he had thus made through 
the seasonable advice of the good old quaker lady he learn¬ 
ed that acts of this sort hold the first place on the list of 
charities: and entered it as a resolution on his journal that 
ne would imitate it and do all in his power to open the eyes 
of all, hut especially of the young, to a timely sense of the 
follies and dangers that beset them. How well he kept his 
promise, will, ’tis likely, gentle reader, be remembered by 
thousands when you and I are forgotten. 


rV A i... 

- 'I IP 1’*' ' 


CHAPTER XIX. 

On the arrival ot the vessel at New-York, Ben went up 
to a tavern, and lo! who should he first cast his eyes on there, 
but his old friend Collins, of Boston! 

Collins had, it seems, been so charmed with Ben’s account 


78 


THE LIFE OF 


of Philadelphia, that he came to the determination to try ma 
fortune there also; and learning that Ben was shortly to re¬ 
turn by the way of New-York, he had jumped into the first 
vessel," and was there before him, waiting his arrival. Great 
was the joy of Ben at the sight of his friend Collins, for it 
drew after it a train of the most pleasant recollections.—But 
who can describe his feelings, when flying to embrace that 
long esteemed youth, he beheld him now risen from his 
chair equally eager for the embrace, but alas! only able to 
make a staggering step or two before down he came sprawl¬ 
ing on the floor, drunk as a lord! 

To see a young man of his wit—his eloquence—his edu 
cation—his hitherto unstained character and high promise 
thus overwhelmed by a worse than brutal vice, would have 
been a sad sight to Ben, even though that young man had 
been an entire stranger. But oh! how tenfold sad to see such 
marks of ruinous dishonour on one so dear, and from whom 
ne had expected so much. 

Ben had just returned from assisting to put poor Collins 
to bed, when the captain of the vessel which had brought him 
to New-York, stepped up and in a very respectful manner 
put a note into his hand.—Ben opened it, not without con¬ 
siderable agitation, and read as follows:— 

44 G. Burnet’s compliments await young Mr. Franklin— 
and should be glad of half an hour’s chat with him over a glass 
of wine.” 

44 G. Burnet!” said Ben, 44 who can that be ?” 

44 Why, ’tis the governor,” replied the captain with a 
smile. 44 1 have just been to see him, with some letters I 
brought for him from Boston. And when I told him what a 
world of books you have, he expressed a curiosity to see you, 
and begged I would return with you to his palace.” 

Ben instantly set off with the captain, but not without 
a sigh as he cast a look back on the door of poor Collins’ 
bed-rocm, to think what an honour that wretched young 
man had lost for the sake of two or three vile gulps of filthy 
grog. 

The governor’s looks, at the approach of Ben, showed 
somewhat of disappointment. He had, it seems, expected 
considerable entertainment from Ben’s conversation. But 
his fresh and ruddy countenance showed him so much youngei 
than he had counted on, that he gave up all his promised en¬ 
tertainment as a lost hope. He received Ben, however, with 
great politeness, and after pressing on him a glass of A'ine, 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


79 


took him into an adjoining room, which was nis library, con¬ 
sisting of a large and well-chosen collection. 

Seeing the pleasure which sparkled in Ben’s eyes as he 
surveyed so many elegant authors, and thought of the rich 
stores of knowledge which they contained, the governor with 
a smile of complacency, as on a young pupil of science, said 
to him, 44 Well, Mr- Franklin, I am told by the captain here, 
that you have a fine collection too.” 

44 Only a trunk full, sir,” said Ben. 

44 A trunk full!” replied the governor. 44 Why, what 
use can you have for so many books? Young people at your 
age have seldom read beyond the 10th chapter of Nehemiah.” 

44 1 can’t boast,” replied Ben, 44 of having read any great 
deal beyond that myself; but still, I should be sorry if I could 
not get a trunk full of books to read every six months.” At 
this, the governor regarding him with a look of surprise, said, 

You must then, though so young, be a scholar; perhaps a 
teacher of the languages.” 

, 44 No sir,” answered Ben, 44 1 know no language but my 

own.” 

44 What, not Latin nor Greek!” 

44 No sir, not a word of either.” 

44 Why, don’t you think them necessary?” 

44 1 don’t set myself up as a judge. But I should not sup¬ 
pose them necessary.” 

44 Aye! well, 1 should like to hear yoijr reasons.” 

4k Why, sir, I am not competent to give reasons that may 
satisfy a gentleman of your learning, but the following are 
the reasons with which I satisfy myself. I look on lan¬ 
guages, sir, merely as arbitrary sounds of characters, where¬ 
by men communicate their ideas to each other. Now, if I 
already possess a language which is capable of conveying 
more ideas than I shall ever acquire, were it not wiser in 
me to improve my time in getting sense through that one 
language, than waste it in getting mere sounds through fifty 
languages, even if I could learn as many?” 

Here the governor paused a moment, though not without 
a little red on his cheeks, for having only a minute before put 
Ben and the 10th chapter of Nehemiah so close together. 
However, catching a new idea, he took another start. 
' 4 Well, but, my dear sir, you certainly differ from the 
teamed world, which is, you know, decidedly in favour of 
'.he languages.” 

44 I would not wish wantonly to differ from the learned 


THE LIFE OF 


BO 

world,” said Ben, 44 especially when they maintain opinions 
that seem to be founded on truth. But when this is not the 
case, to differ from them I have ever thought my duty; and 
especially since I studied Locke.” 

* 4 Locke!” cried the governor with surprise, 44 you studied 
Locke 

“Yes, sir, I studied Locke on the Understanding three 
years ago, when I was thirteen.” 

44 You amaze me, sir. You studied Locke on the Under¬ 
standing at thirteen!” 

44 Yes, sir, I did.” 

44 Well, and pray at what college did you study Locke at 
thirteen; for at Cambridge college in Old England, where I 
got my education, they never allowed the senior class to look 
at Locke till eighteen?” 

44 Why, sir, it was my misfortune never to be at a college, 
nor even at a grammar school, except nine months when I was 
a child.” 

Here the governor sprung from his seat, and staring at 
Ben, cried out, 44 the devil! well, and where—where did you 
get your education, pray?” 

44 At home, sir, in a tallow chandler’s shop.” 

44 In a tallow chandler’s shop!” screamed the governor. 

44 Yes, sir; my father was a poor old tallow chandler, with 
sixteen children, and I the youngest of all. At eight he put 
me to school, but tending he could not spare the money from 
the rest of the children to keep me there, he took me home 
into the shop, where I assisted him by twisting the candle wicks 
and filling the moulds all day, and at night I read by myself. 
At twelve, my father bound me to my brother, a printer, in 
Boston, and with him I worked hard all day at the press and 
cases, and again read by myself at night.” 

Here the governor, spanking his hands together, put up a 
loud whistle, while his eye-balls, wild with surprise, rolled 
about in their sockets as if in a mighty mind to hop out. 
44 Impossible, young man!” he exclaimed: 44 Impossible! you 
are only sounding my credulity. I can never believe one 
half of all this.” Then turning to the captain, he said, 

captain, you are an intelligent man, and from Boston; pray 
tell me can this young man here, be aiming at any thing but 
to quiz me?” 

44 No, indeed, please your excellency,” replied the cap¬ 
tain, 44 Mr. Franklin is not quizzing you. He is saying what is 
•*eallv true, for I am acquainted with his father and family ” 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


81 


The governor then turning to Ben said, more moderately, 
44 Well, my dear wonderful boy, I ask your pardon foi 
doubling your word; and now pray tell me, for I feel a 
stronger desire than ever to hear your objection to learning 
the dead languages.” 

“Why, sir, I object to it principally on account of the 
shortness of human life. Taking them one with another, 
men do not live above forty years. Plutarch, indeed, puts 
it only thirty-three. But say forty. Well, of this full ten 
years are lost in childhood, before any boy thinks of a Latin 
grammar. This brings the forty down to thirty. Now of 
such a moment as this, to spend five or six years in learning 
the dead languages, especially when all the best books in 
those languages are translated into ours, and besides, we 
already have more books on every subject than such short¬ 
lived creatures can ever acquire, seems very preposterous.” 

44 Well, but what are you to do with their great poets, Virgil 
and Homer, for example; I suppose you would not think of 
translating Homer out of his rich native Greek into our pooi 
homespun English, would you r” 

44 Why not, sir?” 

“ Why 1 should as soon think of transplanting a pine-ap 
pie from Jamaica to Boston.” 

44 Well, sir, a skilful gardener, with his hot-house, can 
give us nearly as fine a pine-apple as any in Jamaica. And 
so Mr. Pope, with his fine imagination, has given us Homer, 
in English, with more of his beauties than ordinary scholars 
would find in him after forty years’ study of the Greek. And 
besides, sir, if Homer was not translated, I am far from 
thinking it would be worth spending five or S'x years tc 
learn to read him in his own language.” 

44 You differ from the critics, Mr. Franklin; for the critic: 
all tell us that his beauties are inimitable.” 

44 Yes, sir, and the naturalists tell us that the beauties of 
the basilisk are inimitable too.” 

44 The basilisk, sir! Homer compared with the basilisk ! 1 
really don’t understand you, sir.” 

44 Why, I mean, sir, that as the basilisk is the more to be 
dreaded for the beautiful skin that covers his poison, so Homer 
for the bright colourings he throws over bad character and 
passions. Now, as I don’t think the beauties of poetry are 
comparable to those of philanthropy, nor a thousandth part 
so important to human happiness, I must confess ) dreao 
Homer, especially as the companion of youth. The \ 


82 


THE LIFE OF 


and gentle virtues are certainly the greatest charms and 
sweeteners of life. And I suppose, sir you would hardly 
think of sending your son to Achilles to learn these.” 

“ I agree he lias too much revenge in his composition.” 

“ Yes, sir, and when painted in the colours which Homer’s 
glowing fancy lends, what youth but must run the most immi¬ 
nent risk of catching a spark of bad fire from such a blaze 
as he throws on his pictures?” 

“Why this, though an uncommon view of the subject, is, 
I confess, an ingenious one, Mr. Franklin; but surely ’tis 
overstrained.” 

“Not at all, sir; we are told from good authority, that it 
was the reading of Homer that first put it into the head of 
Alexander the great to become a Hero: and after him of 
Charles the 12th. What millions of human beings have been 
slaughtered by these two great butchers is not known; but 
still probably not a tythe of what have perished in duels be¬ 
tween individuals from the pride and revenge nursed by read¬ 
ing Homer.” 

“Well, sir,” replied the governor, “I never heard the 
prince of bards treated in this way before. You must cer¬ 
tainly be singular in your charges against Homer.” 

“ I ask your pardon, sir, I nave the honour to think of 
Homer exactly as did the greatest philosopher of antiquity; 
1 mean Plato, who strictly forbids the reading of Homer in 
his republic. And yet Plato was a heathen. I don’t boast 
myself as a Christian; and yet I am shocked at the incon¬ 
sistency of our Latin and Greek teachers (generally Chris¬ 
tians and divines too,) who can one day put Homer into the 
hands of their pupils, and in the midst of their recitations 
can stop them short to point out the divine beauties and sub¬ 
limities which the poet gives to his hero, in the bloody work 
of slaughtering the poor Trojans; and the next day take 
them to church to hear a discourse from Christ on the bless¬ 
edness of meekness and forgiveness. No wonder that hot-liver 
ed young men thus educated, should despise meekness and 
forgiveness, as mere cowards’ virtues, and deem nothing so 
glorious as fighting duels, and blowing out brains.” 

Here the governor came to a pause, like a gamester at his 
last trump. But perceiving Ben cast his eyes on a splendid 
copy of Pope’s works, he suddenly seized that as a fine op¬ 
portunity to turn the conversation. So stepping up, he placed 
his hand on his shoulder, and in a very familiar manner said, 

4 Well. Mr. Franklin, there’s an author that I am sure 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


83 


you’ll not quarrel with; an author that I think you’ll pro 
nounc e faultless. ” 

44 Why, sir,” replied Ben, 44 1 entertain a most exalted 
opinion of Pope; but still, sir, I think he is not without hi! 
faults.” 

44 It would puzzle you, I suspect, Mr. Franklin, as keen 
a critic as you are, to point out one.” 

44 Well, sir,” answered Ben, hastily turning to the place, 
44 what do you think of this famous couplet of Mr. Pope’s— 

“ Immodest wordu admit of no defence, 

For want of decency is want of sense.” 

44 1 see no fault there.” 

44 No, indeed!” replied Ben, 44 why now to my mind a man 
can ask no better excuse for any thing wrong he does, than 
his want of sense.” 

44 Well, sir,” said the governor, sensibly staggered, 44 and 
how would you alter it?” 

44 Why, sir, if 1 might presume to alter a line in this great 
Poet, I would do it in this way:— 

“ Immodest words admit but this defence— 

That want of decency is want of sense.” 

Here the governor caught Ben in his arms a& a delighted 
father would his son, calling out at the same time to the cap¬ 
tain, 44 How greatly am I obliged to you, sir, for bringing 
me to an acquaintance with this charming boy? 0! what a 
delightful thing it would be for us old fellows to converse 
with sprightful youth if they were but all like him!—But the 
d—1 of it is, most parents are as blind as bats to the true 
glory and happiness of their children. Most parents never 
look higher for their sons than to see them delving like muck¬ 
worms for money; or hopping about like jay-birds, in fine 
feathers. Hence their conversation is generally no better 
than froth and nonsense.” 

After several other handsome compliments on Ben, and 
the captain expressing a wish to be going, the governor shook 
hands with Ben, begging at the same time that he would for 
ever consider him as one of his fastest friends, and alsc never 
come to New-York without coming to see him. 


84 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XX. 

On returning to the tavern, he hastened into his chambei, 
where lie found his drunken comrade, poor Collins, in a tine 
perspiration, and considerably sobered, owing to the refrige* 
rating effects of a pint of strong sage tea, with a tea-spoon¬ 
ful ol saltpetre, which Ben, before he set out to the go¬ 
vernor’s, iiad pressed on him as a remedy he had somewhere 
read, much in vogue among the Condon topers, to cool off 
after a rum fever. Collins appeared still to have enough 
of brandy in him for a frolic; but when Ben came to tell him 
of the amiable governor Burnet, in whose company, at his 
own palace, he had spent a most delightful evening; and 
also to remind him of the golden opportunity he had lost, 
of forming an acquaintance with that noble gentleman, poor 
Collins wept bitterly. 

Ben was exceedingly affected to see him in tears, and en 
deavoured to comfort him. But he refused comfort. He 
said, “if this had been the first time , he should not himself 
think much of it; but he candidly confessed, that for a long 
time he had been guilty of it, though till of late he had always 
kept it to himself, drinking in his chamber. But now he felt 
at times,” he said, “ an awful apprehension that he was a lost 
man . His cravings for liquor were so strong on the one 
hand, and on the other his powers of resistance so feeble, 
that it put him fearfully in mind of the dismal state of a poor 
wretch, within the fatal attraction of a whirlpool, whose re¬ 
sistless suction, in spite of all his feeble efforts, was hurrying 
him down to sure and speedy destruction.” 

Collins, who was exceedingly eloquent on every subject, 
but especially on one so nearly affecting himself, went on 
deploring his misfortune in strains so tender and pathetic, 
that Ben, whose eyes were fountains ever ready to flow at 
the voice of sorrow, could not refrain from weeping, w r hich 
he did most unfeignedly for a long esteemed friend now going 
to ruin. He could bear, he said, to see the brightest plumed 
bird, charmed by the rattle-snake, descending into the hor¬ 
rid sepulchre of the monster’s jaws. He could bear to see 
the richest laden Indiaman, dismasted and rudderless, drift¬ 
ing ashore on the merciless breakers; because made of dust, 
these things must at any rate return to dust again. But to see 
an immortal mind stopped in her first soarings, entangled 
and limed in the filth of so brutal a vice as drunkenness— 


on. ritAi\KOii\ 


fej 


chat was a sight he could not bear. And as a mother looking 
)n her child that is filleted for the accursed Moloch, cannot 
otherwise than shed tears, so Ben, when he looked on poor 
Collins, could not but weep when he saw him the victim of 
destruction. 

However, as a good wit turns every thing to advantage, 
this sudden and distressing fall of poor Collins, set Ben to 
thinking: and the result of his thoughts noted down in his 
journal of that day, deserves the attention of all young 
men of this day; and even will as long as human nature en¬ 
dures. 


“ Wit,” says lie, “ in young men, is dangerous, because 
apt to breed vanity, which, when disappointed, brings them 
down, and by depriving them of natural cheerfulness, 
drives them to the bottle for that which is artificial. And 
learning also is dangerous, when it is aimed at as an end and 
not a mean. A young man who aspires to be learned mere¬ 
ly for fame , is in danger; for, familiarity breeding contempt, 
creates an uneasy void that drives him to the bottle. Hence 
so many learned men with red noses. But when a man from 
a benevolent heart, seeks learning for the sublime pleasure 
of imitating the Deity in doing good , he is always made 
so happy in the spirit and pursuit of this godlike object, that 
he needs not the stimulus of brandy.” 

This one hint, if duly reflected on by young men, would 
render the name of Franklin dear to them for ever. 




CHAPTER XXI. 

The next day, when they came to settle with the tavern- 
keeper, and Ben with his usual alacrity had paraded his dol¬ 
lars for payment, poor Collins hung back, pale and dumb* 
founded, as a truant school-boy at the call to recitation. 
The truth is, the fumes of his brandy having driven all the 
wit out of his noddle, had puffed it up with such infinite 
vanity, that he must needs turn in, red meed and silly as he 
was, to gamble with the cool-headed water-drinking sharpers 
ofNew-York. The reader hardly need be informed, that 
poor Collins’ pistareens, which he had scraped together for 
this expedition, were to these light-fingered gentlemen as a 
fry of young herrings to the hungry dog-fish. 


86 


THE LIFE OF 


Ben was now placed in a most awkward predicament 
To pay oft* Collins’ scores at New-York, and also his ex¬ 
penses on the road to Philadelphia, would drain him to the 
last farthing. But how could he leave in distress a young 
friend with whom he had passed so many happy days and 
nights in the elegant pleasure of literature, and for whom he 
had contracted such an attachment! Ben could not bear the 
idea, especially as his young friend, if left in this sad condi¬ 
tion, might be driven to despair; so drawing his purse he paid 
oft* Collins’ bill, which, from the quantity of liquor he had 
drank, was swelled to a serious amount; and taking him by 
the arm, set out with a heart much heavier than his purse, 
which indeed was now so empty that had it not been replen¬ 
ished at Bristol by the thirty pounds for which, as we have 
seen, Yernon gave him an order on a gentleman living there, 
who readily paid it, would never have carried him and his 
drunken companion to Philadelphia. On their arrival Col¬ 
lins endeavoured to procure employment as a merchant’s 
clerk, and paraded with great confidence his letters of re¬ 
commendation. But his breath betrayed him. And the 
merchants would have nothing to say to him notwith¬ 
standing all his letters; he continued, therefore, to lodge 
and board with Ben at his expense. Nor was this all; for 
knowing that Ben had Vernon’s money, he was continually 
craving loans of it, promising to pay as soon as he should 
get into business. By thus imposing on Ben’s friendship, 
getting a little of him at one time, and a little at another, 
he had at last got so much of it, that when Ben, who had 
gone on lending without taking note, came to count Vernon’s 
money, he could hardly find a dollar to count! 

It is not easy to describe the agitation of Ben’s mind on 
making this discovery; nor the alternate chill and fever, that 
discoloured his cheeks, as he reflected on his own egregious 
folly in this affair. “ What demon,” said he to himself, 
as he bit his lip, “ could have put it into my head to tell 
Collins that I had Vernon’s money! Didn’t I know that a 
drunkard has no more reason in him than a hog; and can no 
better be satisfied, unless like him he is eternally pulling at 
nis filthy swill? And have I indeed been all this time 
throwing away Vernon’s money for brandy to addle the 
brain of this poor self-made brute? Well then, I am served 
exactly as I deserve, for thus making myself a pander to his 
vices. But now that the money is all gone, and I without a 
dulling to replace it, what’s to be done? Vernon will, no 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


87 


doubt, soon learn that I have collected his money; and wil. 
of c* irse be daily expecting to hear from me. But what can 
I Wide? To tell him that I have collected his money, but 
lent it to a poor, pennyless sot, will sound like a pretty story 
to a man of business! And if I don’t write to him, what will 
lie think of me, and what will become of that high opinion 
he had formed of me, on which it appeared he would have 
trusted me with thousands? So you see, I have got myself 
into a pretty hobble. And worse than all yet, how shall 1 
ever again lift up my booby face to my affectionate brother 
John, after having thus basely stabbed him, through his friend, 
as also through the honour of our family! O my dear, dear old 
father; now l see your wisdom and my own folly! A thou¬ 
sand times did you tell me I was too young; too inexpe¬ 
rienced yet, to undertake by myself.—But no. It would 
not all do. For the life of you, you could not lead or drive 
such divine counsel into this conceited noddle of mine. I 
despised it as the iveakness of old age , and much too slow 
for me. I wanted to save time, and get three or four years 
ahead of. other young men; and that tempted me to disobe 
dience. Well, I am justly punished for it! My bubble is 
broke. And now I see I shall be thrown back as long as if 
I had continued the apprentice of my brother James!!” 

O young men! young men! you that with segars in your 
mouths, and faces flushed with libations of whiskey, can fancy 
yourselves clever fellows, and boast the long list of your dear 
friends , 0 think of the curses that Ben bestowed on his dear 
friend Collins, for bringing him in such a scrape; and learn 
that an ’die, drinking rascal has no friends. If you think- 
otherwise, it is only a proof that you don’t even yet un 
derstand the meaning of the word. Friends indeed! you 
talk of friends! What, you , who instead of nobly pressing 
on for virtue and knowledge and wealth, to make your¬ 
selves an honour and blessing to your connexions, are con¬ 
stantly, by your drunken and gambling courses, making 
yourselves a disgrace and curse to them. And when, like that 
fool in the parable, your all is gone, then, instead of modestly 
going with him into the fields, to feed the swine, you have the 
impudence to quarter your rags and red noses on your dear 
friends , spunging and borrowing of them as long as they’ll 
fend. And if at last, they should get wise enough to refuse 
such unconscionable leechers, as would suck every drop of 
their blood, instantly you can turn tail and abuse your dear 


88 


THE LIFE OF 


friends as though they were pick-pockets,—Witness now 
master Collins. 

Just as Ben was in the midst of his fever and pet, on dis¬ 
covering as aforesaid, the great injury which Collins had done 
him, who but that promising youth should come in, red faced 
and blowzy, and with extreme confidence, demand of him a 
couple of dollars. Ben, rather tartly, replied, that he had 
no more to spare. 44 Pshaw,” answered Collins, 44 ’tis only a 
brace of dollars I want, just to treat an old Boston acquaint¬ 
ance I fell in with at the tavern, and you know Vernon tipt 
you 4 the shiners’ t’other day to the tune of a round hun¬ 
dred.” 44 Yes,” replied Ben, 44 but what with two dollars 
at one time, and two at another, you have taken nearly 
the whole.” 44 Well, man, and what of that,” rejoined Col¬ 
lins, swaggeringly; 44 suppose I had taken the whole; yes, 
and twice as much, sha’nt I get into fine business presently, 
some head clerk’s place, or governor’s secretary? And 
then you’ll see how I’ll tumble you in the yellow boys hand 
over hand, and pay you off these little beggarly items all at 
a dash.” 

44 Fair words , Mr . Collins ,” answered Ben, 44 butter no 
parsnips. And you have been so long talking at this rate, 
and yet doing nothing, that I really am afraid—” 

44 Afraid, the d-1,” interrupted Collins, insultingly, 

44 afraid of what? But see here, Mr. Franklin, I came to you 
not to preach to me, but to lend me a couple of dollars. And 
now all that you have to do is just to tell me, at a word, 
whether you can lend them or not.” 

44 Well then, at a word, I cannot,” said Ben. 

“Well then, you are an ungrateful fellow,” retorted 
Collins. 

44 Ungrateful?” asked Ben, utterly astonished. 

“Yes, an ungrateful fellow,” replied Collins. 44 You 
dare not deny, sir, that it was I who first took you out of 
the tallow pots and grease of your old father’s candle shop 
in Boston, and made a man of you. And now after all, 
when I only ask you to lend me a couple of shabby dollars 
to treat a friend, you can refuse me! Well, keep your dol 

lars to yourself and be d-d for an ungrateful fellow as 

you are!” then wheeling on his heel he went off, blustering 
and swollen with passion, as though he had been most out¬ 
rageously ill-treated. Soon as Ben had recovered himself 
a little from the stupefaction into which this tornado of 




DR. FRANKLIN. 


89 


Collins had thrown him, he clapped his hands, and rolling; up 
Jiis eyes like one devoutly given, exclaimed, 44 O Ulysses, 
well called wise! You, though a heathen, could lash your 
sailors to the mast to keep them from going ashore to be 
made hogs of at the grog shops of Circe , while I, the son 
ot an old presbyterian Christian, the son of his old age, and 
heir elect of all his wisdom, Lave been here now for weeks 
together, lending money to brutalize my own friend! Would 
to heaven, I had been but half as wise as you, 1 should not 
lave been so shamefully fleeced, and now so grossly insulted 
by this young swine, Collins. But what brain of man could 
have suspected this of him? After taking him out of the stye 
of a jug tavern in New-York, where he was up to the back 
in dirt and debt—after paying all his expenses to Philadel¬ 
phia, and here supporting him cheerfully, out of my hard and 
scanty earnings;—after submitting, for cheapness sake, to 
sleep in the same bed with him every night, scorched with 
nis rum-fevered flesh, drenched in his nocturnal sweats, and 
poisoned with his filthy breath; and still worse, after lend¬ 
ing him nearly the whole of Vernon’s money, and thereby 
brought my own silly nose to the grindstone, perhaps for many 
a doleful year, I should now at last be requited with all this 
abuse; d—n—d for an ungrateful fellow! ! Well, I don’t 
know where all this is to end; but I will still hope for the best. 

I hope it will teach me this important lesson, never to have 
any thing to do with a sot again, as long as I live. But stop, 
though I refused him money to get drunk with, I still feel 
a friendship for this wretched young man, this Collins; and 
will still work to support him, while he stays with me. It 
is likely that now, that he can get no more money from me, 
he will take his departure; and then, if my senses remain, 

I think I will for ever hereafter shun, as I would a beast, 
the young man who drinks drams and grog.” 

From his going off in such a pet, Ben had supposed at first, 
that Collins would not return again. But having no money 
nor friends in Philadelphia, the poor fellow came back at 
night, to his old roosting place with Ben, by whom he was 
received with the same good humour as if nothing had hap¬ 
pened. But though the injured may forgive, the injurer sel¬ 
dom does. Collins never looked straight at Ben after this. 
The recollection of the past kept him sore. And to be de¬ 
pendent on one whom, in the pride of former days, he 
had thought his inferior, rendered his condition so uneasy, 
that he longed for an opportunity to get out of it. Fortunately 


00 


THE LIFE OF 


an opportunity soon ottered. The captain ot a trader to th* 
West Indies, falling in with him one day at a tavern, where he 
was spouting away at a most elegant rate, was so charmed with 
his vivacity and wit, which most young fools, half shaved, are 
apt to figure in, that he offered him the place of a private 
tutor in a rich family in Jamaica. Dame fortune, in her best 
humour, with all her cogged dice in the bargain, could not, 
as Collins himself thought, have thrown him a luckier hit. 
Young black eyed creoles, with fourth proof spirit, in all its 
delicious modifications, of slings , bumbo and punchy dancing 
before his delighted fancy, in such mazes of pleasurable pro¬ 
mise, that ’tis likely he would hardly have exchanged places 
with the grand Turk. With a countenance glowing with 
joy, he hastened to Ben to tell him the glorious news, and to 
take leave. After heartily congratulating him on his good 
fortune, Ben asked, if he would not want a little money to 
fit him out. Collins thanked him, but said that the captain, 
who had engaged him, was such a noble-hearted fellow, that 
he had, of his own accord, advanced him three half joes to 
put him into what he called “ complete sailing trim.” 
Though Ben had of late been so scurvily treated by Collins, 
as to think it very desirable to be quit of him; yet, when the 
time came, he found it no such easy matter for the heart to 
dissolve the ties of a long and once pleasant friendship. He 
nad passed with Collins many of his happiest hours, and 
+ hese too, in the sweetest season of life, and amidst pleasures 
which best lift the soul from earth, and spring those unutter¬ 
able hopes she delights in. How then, without tears, could 
he for the last time, feel the strong pressure of his hand, and 
catch the parting glance? On the other side, through watery 
eyes and broken accents, poor Collins sobbed out his last 
adieu, not without hearty thanks, for the many favors which 
Ben had done him, and solemn promises of speedily writing 
to him , and remitting all his money. Charity would fain 
believe, that he fully so intended; but alas! nor money, noi 
friend did Ben ever hear of afterwards. This elegant vie 
tim of rum, was no doubt presented by the captain to the 
wealthy family in Jamaica. And being introduced, under 
the genial influence perhaps of a cheerful glass, J tis likely 
that with his advantages of education and eloquence, he made 
such a figure in the eyes of those wealthy and hospitable 
.slanders, that they were in raptures with him, and fondly 
counted that they had got an elegant young schoolmaster 
who was to make scholars and wits of the whole family 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


9 1 


Perhaps too, their darling hope, a blooming daughter, was 
seen to heave the tender sigh, as blushing she darted the 
side-long glance upon him. But alas! the next day sees the 
elegant young schoolmaster dead drunk! and the amiable 
family all in the dumps again. ’Tis more than probable, that 
after having been alternately received and dismissed from 
a dozen wealthy families, he sunk at length, into tattered 
garments, and a grog-blossomed face; the mournful victim 
of intemperance. And now perhaps, after all the fair pros¬ 
pects of his youth, and all the fond hopes of his parents, 
poor Collins, untimely buried in a foreign church-yard, only 
serves for the pious to point their children to his early tomb 
and remind them how vain are talents and education with 
out the restraints of religion. 




CHAPTER XXII. 

Soon as Ben reached Philadelphia, as aforesaid, he waited 
on the governor, who received him with joy, eagerly call¬ 
ing out, 44 Well my dear boy , what success ? What suc¬ 
cess ?” Ben, with a smile, drew his father’s letter from his 
pocket. The governor snatched it, as if all impatient to see 
its contents, which he ran through with a devouring haste. 
When he was done, he shook his head and said, 44 it was to be 
sure a sensible, letter, a vastly sensible letter; but — but, —it 
won’t do,” continued he to Ben, 44 no, it won’t do; your father 
is too cautious, entirely too cautious, sir.” Hereupon he fell 
into a brown study, with his eyes nailed to the ground, as in a 
profound reverie. After a moment’s pause, he suddenly looked 
up, and with a countenance bright as with some happy thought, 
he cried out, 44 I’ve got it, my dear young friend, I’ve got 
it exactly. Zounds! what signifies making two bites at a 
cherry? In for a penny , in for a pound , is my way. Since 
your father will do nothing for you, I’ll do it all myself. A 
printer I want, and a printer I’ll have, that’s a clear case: 
and I am sure you are the lad that will suit me to a fraction. 
So give me a list of the articles you want from England, 
and I will send for them by the very next ship, and set you 
up at once: and all I shall expect of you, is that you’ll pay 
me wheri you are able!!” Seeing the tear swelling in Ben’s 
eye, the governor took him by the hand, and in a softened 


92 


THE LIFE OF 


tone said, 44 come, nothing of that my dear boy, nothing of that. 
A lad of your talents and merit, must not languish in the 
back ground for lack of a little money to bring you forward. 
So make me out, as I said, a list of such articles as you may 
want, and I’ll send for them at once to London.*—But stop! 
would it not be better for you to go to London, and choose 
these things yourself? you could then, you know, be sure to 
have them all of the best quality. And besides, you could 
form an acquaintance with some clever fellows in the book 
selling and stationary line, whose friendship might be worth 
a Jew’s eye to you, in your business here. 

Ben, hardly able now to speak, thanked the governor as 
well as he could for so generous an offer.— 44 Well then,” 
continued the governor, “get yourself in readiness to go 
with the Annis. ” The reader will please to be informed, 
that the Annis was, at that time, (If 22) the only regular 
trader between London and Philadelphia; and she made but 
one voyage in the year! Finding that the Annis was not to 
sail for several months yet, Ben prudently continued to do 
journey work for old Keimer; but often haunted with the 
ghost of Vernon’s money which he had lent to Collins, and 
for fear of what would become of him if Vernon should be 
strict to mark his iniquities in that mad affair. But happily 
lor him, Vernon made no demand. It appeared afterwards 
that this worthy man had not forgotten his money. But 
learning from a variety of quarters, that Ben was a perfect 
non-descript of industry and frugality, he concluded that as 
the money was not paid, Ben was probably under the hatches. 
He therefore, generously, let the matter lie over till a dis¬ 
tant day, when Ben, as we shall by and by see, paid him 
up fully, both principal and interest, and thus recovered the 
high ground he formerly held in his friendship. Thanks be 
to God, who has given to inflexible honesty and industry, 
such power over the 44 heart strings as well as “pwse 
strings ,” of mankind. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


*3 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Be n was naturally comic in a high degree, and this plea¬ 
sant vein, greatly improved by his present golden prospects, 
betrayed him into many a frolic with Keimer, to whom he 
had prudently attached himself as a journeyman, until the 
Annis should sail. The reader will excuse Ben for these 
frolics when he comes to learn what were their aims; as also 
what an insufferable old creature this Keimer was. Silly as 
a booby, yet vain as a jay, and garrulous as a pie, he could 
never rest but when in a stiff argument, and acting the orator, 
at which he looked on Cicero himself as but a boy to him. 
Here was a fine target for Ben’s Socratic artillery, which 
he frequently played off on the old pomposo with great effect. 
By questions artfully put, he would obtain of him certain 
points, which Keimer readily granted, as seeing in them no 
sort of connexion with the matter in debate. But yet these 
points, when granted, like distant nets slyly hauling round 
a porpoise or sturgeon, would, by degrees, so completely cir¬ 
cumvent the silly fish, that with all his flouncing and fury 
he could never extricate himself, but rather got more deeply 
entangled. Often caught in this way, he became at last so 
afraid of Ben’s questions , that he would turn as mad when 
one of them was “poked cit him,” as a bull at sight of a scar¬ 
let cloak; and would not answer the simplest question with¬ 
out first asking, 44 ivell, and what would you make of that?” 
He came at length to form so exalted an opinion of Ben’s, 
talents for refutation, that he seriously proposed to him one 
day that they should turn out together and preach up a New 
Religion! Keimer was to preach and make the converts, 
and Ben to answer and put to silence the gainsayers. He 
said a world of money might be made by it. 

On hearing the outlines of this new religion, Ben found 
great fault with it. This he did only that he might have an¬ 
other frolic with Keimer; but his frolics were praiseworthy, 
for they all 44 leaned to virtue’s side.” The truth is, he saw 
that Keimer was prodigiously a hypocrite. At every whip¬ 
stitch he could play the knave, and then for a pretence would 
read his Bible. But it was not the moral part of the Bible, 
the sweet precepts and parables of the Gospel that he read. 
No verily. Food so angelic was not at all to the tooth of 
his childish fancy, which delighted in nothing but the novel 
*nd curious. Like too many of the saints now-a-days, he 


94 


THE LIFE OF 


would rather read about the witch of Endor, than the good 
Samaritan, and hear a sermon on the brazen candlesticks 
than on the love of God. And then, O dear! who was 
Melchizedeck? Or where was the land of Nod? Or, was it 
in the shape of a serpent or a monkey that the devil tempted 
Eve? As he was one day poring over the pentateuch as 
busy after some nice game of this sort as a terrier on the 
track of a weazle, he came to that famous text where Moses 
says, “ thou shall not mar the corners of thy beard. ” Aye! 
this was the divinity for Keimer. It struck him like anew 
light from the clouds: then rolling his eyes as from an appa¬ 
rition, he exclaimed, “miserable man that I am! and was 1 
indeed forbidden to mar even the corners of my beard, and 
have I been all this time shaving myself as smooth as an 
eunuch! Fire and brimstone, how have you been boiling up 
for me, and I knew it not! Hell, deepest hell is my portion, 
that’s a clear case, unless I reform. And reform 1 will if 
I live. Yes, my poor naked chin, if ever I but get another 
crop upon thee and I suffer it to be touched by the ungodly 
steel, then let my right hand forget her cunning.” 

From that day he became as shy of a razor as ever Sam¬ 
son was. His long black whiskers “ whistled in the wind” 
And then to see how he would stand up before his glass and 
stroke them down, it would have reminded you of some an¬ 
cient Druid, adjusting the sacred Misletoe. 

Ben could not bear that sight. Such shameless neglect 
of angel morality, and yet such fidgetting about a goatish 
beard! “ Heavens, sir,” said he to Keimer, one day in the 
midst of a hot argument, 

“ Who can think, with common sense, 

A smooth shaved face gives God offence! 

Or that a whisker hath a charm, 

Eternal justice to disarm!” 

He even proposed to him to get shaved. Keimer swore 
outright that he would never lose his beard. A stiff alter¬ 
cation ensued. But Keimer getting angry, Ben agreed at 
last to give up the beard. He said that, “ as the beard at 
best was but an external, a mere excrescence, he would not 
insist on that as so very essential. But certainly sir,” 
continued he, “ there is one thing that is.” 

Keimer wanted to know what that was. 

“ Why sir,” added Ben, “ this turning out and preaching 
up a New Religion, is, without doubt, a very serious affair, 
and ought not to be undertaken too hastily. Much time. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


95 


sir, in my opinion at least, should be spent in making pre¬ 
paration, in which, fasting should certainly have a large 
share.” 

Keimer, who was a great glutton, said he could never fast. 

Ben then insisted that if they were not to fast altogether, 
they ought, at any rate, to abstain from animal food, and live 
as the saints of old did, on vegetables and water. 

Keimer shook his head, and said that if he were to live on 
vegetables and water, he should soon die. 

Ben assured him that it was entirely a mistake. He had 
tried it often, he said, and could testify from his own expe¬ 
rience that he was never more healthy and cheerful than when 
he lived on vegetables alone. “Die from feeding on vege- 
tables, indeed! Why, sir, it contradicts reason; and con¬ 
tradicts all history, ancient and profane. There was Daniel, 
and his three young friends, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed- 
nego, who fed on a vegetable diet, of choice; did they languish 
and die of it? or rather did they not display a rouge of 
health and fire of genius, far beyond those silly youths who 
crammed on all the luxuries of the royal table? And that 
amiable Italian nobleman, Lewis Cornaro, who says of 
bread, that it was such a dainty to his palate, that he was 
almost afraid, at times, it was too good for him to eat; did 
he languish and die of this simple fare? On the contrary, did 
he not out-live three generations of gratified epicures; and 
after all, go off* in his second century, like a bird of Para¬ 
dise, singing the praises of Temperance and Virtue? And 
pray, sir,” continued Ben, 44 where’s the wonder of all this? 
Must not the.blood that is formed of vegetables be the purest 
in nature? And then, as the spirits depend on the blood, must 
not the spirits secreted from such blood be the purest too? 
And when this is the case with the blood and spirits, which 
are the very life of the man, must not that man enjoy the 
best chance for such healthy secretions and circulations as 
are most conducive to long and happy life?” 

While Ben argued at this rate, Keimer regarded him with 
a look which seemed to say, 44 Very true, sir; all this is 
very true; but still I cannot go it.” 

Ben, still unwilling to give up his point, thought he would 
make one more push at him. 44 What a pity it is,” said he 
with a sigh, 44 that the blessings of so sublime a religion 
should be all lost to the world, merely for lack of a little 
fortitude on the part of its propagators.” 

This was touching him or. the right string; for Keimer 


/ 


9b 


THE LIFE OF 


was a man of such vanity, that a little flattery would put him 
u p to any thing. So after a few hems and ha’s, he said, he be¬ 
lieved he would, at any rate, make a trial of this new regimen. 

Having thus carried his point, Ben immediately engaged 
a poor old woman of the neighbourhood to become their cook: 
and gave her off hand, written receipts for three and forty 
dishes; not one of which contained a single atom of fish, 
flesh, or fowl. For their first day’s breakfast on the neu 
regimen , the old woman treated them witli a terrene ot oat¬ 
meal gruel. Keimer was particularly fond of his breakfast, 
at which a nice beef-stake with onion sauce, was a standing 
dish. It was as good as a farce to Ben, to see with what an 
eye Keimer regarded the terrene, when entering the room, 
in place of his stake, hot, smoking, and savory, he beheld this 
pale, meagre-looking slop. 

“What have you got there?” said he, with a visage grum, 
and scowling eye. 

44 A dish of hasty pudding,” replied Ben, with the smile 
of an innocent youth who had a keen appetite, with some¬ 
thing good to satisfy it— 44 a dish of nice hasty pudding, sir, 
made of oats.” 

“Of oats!” retorted Keimer, with a voice raised to a 
scream. 

“Yes, sir, oats,” rejoined Ben,— “oats, that precious 
grain which gives such elegance and fire to our noblest of 
quadrupeds, the horse.” 

Keimer growled out, that he was no horse to eat oats. 

“ No matter for that,” replied Ben, 44 ’tis equally 
for men.” 

Keimer denied that any human being ever eat oats. 

“Ave!” said Ben, 44 and pray what’s become of the 
Scotch ? Don’t they live on oats; and yet, where will you 
find a people so 4 bonny, blythe, and gay;’ a nation of such 
wits and warriors.” 

As there was no answering this, Keimer sat down to the 
terrene, and swallowed a few spoonfuls, but not without 
making as many wry faces as if it had been so much jalap: 
while Ben, all smile and chat, breakfasted most deliciously. 

At dinner, by Ben’s order, the old woman paraded a 
trencher piled up with potatoes. Keimer’s grumbling fit 
came on him again. “ He saw clear enough,” he said, 
44 that he was to be poisoned.” 

“ Poh, cheer up, man,” replied Ben; “ this is your right 
preacher’s bread.” 



DR. FRANKLIN 


97 


46 Bread the d—1!” replied Keimer, snarling. 

44 Yes, bread, sir,” continued Ben, pleasantly; 44 the 
bread of life, sir; for where do you find such health and 
spirits, such bloom and beauty, as among the honest-hearted 
Irish, and yet for their breakfast, dinner, and supper, the 
potato is their tetotum; the first, second, and third course.” 
In this way, Ben and his old woman went on with Keimer: 
daily ringing the changes on oat-meal gruel, roasted potatoes, 
boiled rice, and so on, through the whole family of roots and 
grains in all their various genders, moods, and tenses. 

Sometimes, like a restive mule, Keimer would kick up 
and show strong symptoms of flying the way. But then Ben 
would prick him up again with a toucli of his ruling pas¬ 
sion, vanity; 44 only think, Mr. Keimer,” he would say, 
44 only think what nas been done by the founders of new 
religions: how they have enlightened the ignorant, polished 
the rude, civilized the savage, and made heroes of those who 
were little better than brutes. Think, sir, what Moses did 
among the stiff-necked Jew's; what Mahomet did among 
the wild Arabs—and what you may do among these gentle 
drab-coated Pennsylvanians.” This, like a spur in the 
flank of a jaded horse, gave Keimer a new start, and pushed 
him on afresh to his gruel breakfasts and potato dinners. 
Ben strove hard to keep him up to this gait. Often at table, 
and especially when he saw that Keimer was in good hu¬ 
mour and fed kindly, he would give a loose to fancy, and 
paint the advantages of their new regimen in the most glow¬ 
ing colours. 44 Aye, sir,” he would say, letting drop at 
the same time his spoon, as in an ecstacy of his subject, 
while his pudding on the platter cooled— 44 aye, sir, now we 
are beginning to live like men going a preaching indeed. 
Let your epicures gormandize their fovyl, fish, and flesh, 
with draughts of intoxicating liquors. Such gross, inflam¬ 
matory food may suit the brutal votaries of Mars and Venus. 
But our view's, sir, are different altogether; we are going to 
teach wisdom and benevolence to mankind. This is a hea¬ 
venly work, sir, and our minds ought to be heavenly. Now, 
as the mind depends greatly on the body, and the body on 
the food, we should certainly select that which is of the 
most pure and refining quality. And this, sir, is exactly 
the food to our purpose. This mild potato, or this gentle 
pudding, is the thing to insure the light stomach, the cooi 
liver, the clear head, and, above all, those celestial passions 

9 


98 


THE LIFE OF 


which become a preacher that would moralize the world 
And these celestial passions, sir, let mo add, though 1 don’t 
pretend to be a prophet, these celestial passions, sir, were you 
but to stick to this diet, would soon shine out in your coun¬ 
tenance with such apostolic majesty and grace, as would 
strike all beholders with reverence, and enable you to carry 
the world before you.” 

Such was the style of Ben’s rhetoric with old Keimer. 
But it could not all do. For though these harangues would 
sometimes make him fancy himself as big as Zoroaster or 
Confucius, and talk as if he should soon have the whole 
country running after him, and worshipping him for the 
Great Lama oi the west; yet this divinity fit was too much 
against the grain to last long. Unfortunately for poor Kei¬ 
mer, the kitchen lay between him and his bishobprick: and 

both nature and habit had so wedded him to that swinish 
« 

idol, that nothing could divorce him. So after having been 

led by Ben a 44 very d -/ of a life ,” as he called it, ii for 

three months ,” his flesh-pot appetites prevailed, and he 
swore, “ by h is whiskers , he would suffer it no longer .” 
Accordingly he ordered a nice roast pig for dinner, and de¬ 
sired Ben to invite a young friend to dine with them. Ben 
did so: but neither himself nor his young friend were any 
thing the better for the pig. For before they could arrive, the 
pig being done, and his appetite beyond all restraint, Keimer 
had fallen on it and devoured the whole. And there he sat 
panting and torpid as an Anaconda who had just swallowed 
a young buffaloe. But still his looks gave sign that the 
44 Ministers of Grace ” had not entirely deserted him. foi 
at sight of Ben and his young friend, he blushed up to the 
eye lids, and in a glow of scarlet, which showed that he paid 
dear for his ivhistle , (gluttony) he apologized for disap¬ 
pointing them of their dinner. 44 Indeed, the smell of the 
pig,” he said, “was so sweet, and the nicely browned 
skin so inviting, especially to him who had been long starved, 
that for the soul of him he could not resist the temptation 
to taste it —and then, ()! if Lucifer himself had been at the* 
ioor, he must have gone on, let what would have been the 
;onsequences.” He said too, 44 that for his part he was 
^Iad it was a pig and not a hog, for that he verily believed 
ne should have bursted himself.”—Then leaning back in his 
chair and pressing his swollen abdomen with his paws, he 
exclaimed with an awkward laugh, 44 Well, I don’t believe 



DR. FRANKLIN- 


9& 

t was ever cut out for a bishop!”—Here ended the farce . 
for Keimer never after this uttered another word about his 
New Rf ligion. 

Ben used, laughing, to say that he drew Keimer into this 
scrape that he might enjoy the satisfaction of starving him 
oat of his gluttony And lie did it also that he might save 
the more/or books and candles: their vegetable regimen cost¬ 
ing him, in all, rather less than three cents a day! To those 
who can spend twenty times this sum on tobacco and whis¬ 
key alone, three cents per day must appear a scurvy allow¬ 
ance, and of course poor Ben must be sadly pitied. But 
such philosophers should remember that all depends on our 
loves, whose property it is to make bitter things sweet, and 
heavy things light. 

For example: to lie out in the darksome swamp with no 
other canopy but the sky, and no bed but the cold ground, 
and his only music the midnight owl or screaming alligator, 
seems terrible to servile minds; but it was joy to Marion, 
whose 44 whole soul,” as general Lee well observes, 44 was de¬ 
voted to liberty and country. ” 

So, to shut himself up in a dirty printing-office, with no 
dinner but a bit of bread, no supper but an apple, must ap¬ 
pear to every epicure as it did to Keimer, 44 a mere d—l of 
a life;” but it was joy to Ben, whose whole soul was on his 
books, as the sacred lamps that were to guide him to useful¬ 
ness and glory. 

Happy he who early strikes into the path of wisdom, and 
bravely walks therein till habit sprinkles it with roses. He 
shall be led as a lamb among the green pastures along the 
water courses of pleasure, nor shall he ever experience the 
pang of those 

“ Who see the right, and approve it too ; 

Condemn the wrong—and yet the wrong pursue.” 




CHAPTER XXIII. 

Ben, as we have seen, was never without a knot of 
choice spirits, like satellites, constantly revolving around 
him, and both receiving and reflecting light. By these satel¬ 
lites I mean young men of fine minds, and fond of books. 
He had at this time a trio of such. The first was of the 


H)0 


THE LIFE OF 


name of Osborne, the second Watson, and the third Ralpn. 
As the two first were a good deal of the nature of wander¬ 
ing stars, which, though bright, soon disappear again, 1 
shall let them pass away in silence. But the last, that’s to 
say, Ralph, shone so long in the same sphere with Ben, both 
in America and Europe, that it will never do to let him go 
without giving the reader somewhat at least of a telescopic 
squint at him. James Ralph, then, was a young man of the 
first rate talents, ingenious at argument, of flowery fancy, 
most fascinating in his manners, and uncommonly eloquent 
In short, he appears to have been built and equipped to run 
the voyage of life with as splendid success as any. But alas! 
as the seamen say of their ships, 6i he took the wrong sheer.” 
Hence, while many a dull genius, with only a few plain¬ 
sailing virtues on board, such as honest industry, good hu¬ 
mour, and prudence, have made fine weather through life, 
and come into port at last laden up to the bends with riches 
and honours, this gallant Proa, this stately Gondola, the 
moment he was put to sea, was caught up in a Euroclydon 
of furious passions and appetites that shivered his character 
and peace, and made a wreck of him at the very outset. 

According to his own account, it appears that Ben was 
often haunted with fears that he himself had some hand in 
Ralph’s disasters. Dr. Franklin was certainly one of the 
wisest of mankind. But with all his wisdom he was still 
but a man, and therefore liable to err. Solomon, we know, 
was fallible; what wonder then young Franklin? 

But here lies the difference between these two wise men, 
as to their errors. Solomon, according to scripture, was 
sometimes overcome of Satan, even in the bone and sinew 
of his strength; but the devil was too hard for Franklin 
only while he was in the gristle of his youth. The case was 
thus: -among the myriads of books which came to his eager 
tooth, there was a most unlucky one on deism, written, ’tis 
said, by Shaftesbury, a man admirably calculated to pervert 
the truth; or, as Milton says of one of his fallen spirits, to 
make “ the worse appear the better reason .” Mark now 
this imposing writer—he does not utter you a word against 
religion; not he indeed: no, not for the world. Why, sirs, 
he’s the best friend of religion. He praises it up to the 
skies, as the sole glory of man, the strong pillar of his vir¬ 
tues, and the inexhaustible fountain of all his hopes. But 
then he cannot away with that false religion, that detest¬ 
able superstition called Christianity. And here, to set hi' 

- <«. • 

<• ( 

«. < ( 


DR. FRANKLIN 


10i 


readers against it, he gives them a most horrible catalogue 
of the cruelties and bloody persecutions it has always occa¬ 
sioned in the world; nay, he goes so far as to assert that 
Christians are the natural enemies of mankind; “ vainly 
conceiting themselves,” says he, “ to be the favourites of 
heaven, they look on the rest of the world but as ‘ heathen 
dogs’whom it is ‘doing God service to kill,’ and whose 
goods it is right to seize on, as spoil for the Lord’s people! 
Who,” he asks crowingly, “ filled Asia with fire and sword 
in the bloody wars of the Crusades ? The Christians. Who 
depopulated the fine negro-coasts of Africa ? The Chris¬ 
tians. Who extiipated many of the once glorious Indian 
nations of America? The Christians; nay,” continues he, 
“ so keen are those Christians for blood, that when they 
can’t get their ‘ heathen dogs’ to fall on, they fill on one 
another: witness the papist Christians destroying the pro- 
'estants, and the protestant chnstians destroying the papists. 
\nd still greater shame,” says he, “to these sweet follow¬ 
ers of the Lamb, these papist and protestant Christians, 
vhen they can no longer worry each other, will worry those 
)f their own party, as in numberless and shameful cases of 
the calvinists and arminians; nay, so prone are the Chris¬ 
tians to hate, that their greatest doctors even in their pul¬ 
pits , instead of exhorting to piety and those godlike virtues, 
that make men honour and love one another, will fix on the 
vainest speculations; which, though not understood by one 
soul among them, yet serve abundantly to set them all by the 
ears; yes, they can hate one another: 

For believing that there are three persons in the Godhead; 
or only one person. 

For believing that there are children in hell not a span 
long; or for not believing it. 

O 7 cj # 

For believing that every body will be saved; or for be¬ 
lieving that scarcely any body will be saved. 

For baptizing in mill ponds; or only out of china bowls. 

For taking the sacrament in both elements; or only in the 
bread. 

For praying in Latin; or for praying only in English. 

For praying with a book; or for praying without a book. 

For praying standing; or for praying kneeling. 

For reading the Bible by themselves: or for reading it 
only with a priest. 

For wearing long beards; or for shaving their beards 

9 * 


102 


THE LIFE OF 


For preaching up preuestination; or for preaching up trev 
will. 

Now,” continues our writer, <k barely to hate one’s neigh 
hours for such notions as these, were enough, one would 
think, to make any common cl—1 blush; but these Chris¬ 
tians, as if to out-d—1 Satan himself, can not only hate, but 
actually murder one another for these contradictory notions! 
yes; and oh, horrible to think! not only murder, but even 
glory in it: at every shower of cruel bullets on their Hying 
victims; or at every plunge of the reeking spear into the 
bodies of shrieking mothers and infants, they can cheer 
each other to the glorious spot with animating huzzas! and 
even when the infernal tragedy is closed, they can write 
congratulatory letters, and sing Te Deums , giving glory to 
God that the Monsters —the Beasts —the Heretics, are 
rooted out.” 

Such was the prince of infidels. And it was the very 
argument to stagger Ben, even the dangerous argument of 
example* which young as he was, he had learned to consider 
as a short way of coming at men’s real principles. 

“ Example is a living law, whose sway 
Men more than all the living laws obey.” 

Or as Hudibras has it, 

Men oft prove it by their practice: 

No argument like matter of fact is. 

And we are, best of all, led to 
Men’s principles, by what they do.” 

’Tis true, that to tax the gospel with these accursed deeds 
of mad papists and protestants, is just about as good logic 
as to accuse our excellent civil code with all the crimes of 
gamblers and horse thieves—the very rascals it aims to hang 
Or like charging the sun as the cause of darkness , which 
indeed it was given to dispel. 

But Ben was too young yet, to Know every thing. And 
besides, led altogether as he was by the strongest feelings ot 
sympathy, it is not much to be wondered at, that this popu¬ 
lar argument, “the barbarities of Christians ,” should have 
excited so lasting prejudice against Christianity. As some 
men of delicate natures who have taken an emetic, though 
in the best madeira, can never afterwards bear the smell of 
that generous liquor; so Christianity, steeped in tears and 
blood, excited in Ben an aversion that stuck by him a long 
time. In short, Ben became an unbeliever And, like 
Paul of Tarsus, during the reign of his unbelief, 44 hr thought 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


103 

verily he ought to do many things contrary to the name of 
Jesus of Nazareth , which things he also did” arguing 
powerfully for natural religion. 

IIow many converts he made to infidelity, I have never 
been able exactly to learn. But certain it is, he made two, 
viz. John Collins and James Ralph. As to CoJlins, we 
have seen already, that in converting him to scepticism, he 
soon drew down an old house over his head , his pupil quickly 
turning out a most impudent drunkard and swindler. And 
though he expected better luck from Ralph, yet he quickly 
discovered in him also certain very dismal symptoms of the 
cloven foot. 

Some short time before the sailing of the Annis, Ben, in 
the warmth of his heart, told Ralph of the immense affair 
which Sir William Keith had engaged him in, viz. to make 
him the King’s Printer in Philadelphia. And also that he 
was about to sail in a few days on that very errand for Lon¬ 
don. Ralph suddenly turned serious; the next day he came 
and told Ben that he had made up his mind to go with him. 
“ How can that be,” said Ben, “seeing you have a young 
wife and child?” To this Ralph replied, with an oath, that 
“that should be no obstacle.” “It was true,’? he said, 
“ he had married the wench, but it was only for her money. 
But since the old rascal, her father, would not give it to 
him, he was determined to be revenged on him, by leaving 
his daughter and grandchild on his hands for life.” 

Ben, though greatly shocked by this trait in his character, 
was yet so blindly partial to Ralph that he could not find in 
his heart to spurn him from his acquaintance. But for this, 
as he afterwards called it, great error in his life , he received 
a chastisement, which, though pretty severe, was not one 
stripe more than he richly deserved 


—© 3 4IX ■— 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

The day at length arrives, the long wished day for the 
sailing of the Annis; and Ben gladly hails it as the fairest 
he had ever seen. 

All in the stream the ship she lies, 

Iler topsails loosen’d from above, 

When Ben to DEBBY fondly flies 
To bid fare well to his TRUE LOVE 


104 


THE LIFE OF 


But brightly as shone the day, yet in this, as in all the past, 
he found a canker. If the season served his ambition, it 
crossed his love. The reader will please be reminded that 
the Dcbby , immortalized in the lines above, was the beauti¬ 
ful Miss Deborah Read, who had at first so heartily laughed 
at Ben for munching his roll along the street; but after¬ 
wards had fallen very much in love with him. And, on the 
other hand, living in her father’s family, and daily a specta¬ 
tor of her prudence and sweetness of spirit, he had become 
equally partial to her; and had even asked her in marriage, 
before he set out for London. The old gentleman, her fa¬ 
ther, was quite keen for the match, it having always been 
his opinion, he said, that in choosing a husband for his 
daughter, it was better to get a man without money , than 
money without a man. 

But old Mrs. Read flatly refused her consent; or, at any 
rate, until his return, when, as she said, it would be full 
time enough for “ such young people to marry.” The truth 
is, the printing trade, then in its infancy in Pennsylvania, 
was of such little account that the old lady had her fears 
that her daughter would starve if she married Ben. 

Having taken leave of his fair sweetheart, with many a 
vow of love and swift return, Ben, accompanied by Ralph, 
hastened on board the ship, which fell down the river for 
Newcastle. Immediately on his arrival at this place, he 
went on shore to see his dear friend the governor, who was 
come down to despatch the packet. The governor could not 
be seen! This was a sad shock to Ben, and would have 
been much more so, but for the attentions of the governor’s 
secretary, Dr. Bar, who, with the finest smile imaginable, 
presented the 66 Governor’s compliments to his young 
friend Mr. Franklin—was extremely sorry indeed he could 
not see him , owing to a press of business , among which was 
that of writing some letters for his own special service , which 
should be sent on board to him—but though his Excellency 
could not enjoy the pleasure of seeing Mr. Franklin , yet, 
he begged he would accept the assurances of his eternal 
friendship , with the best wishes for his prosperous voyage 
and speedy return; and above alb his earnest hopes that lit 
would continue to improve his extraordinary talents . ” 

Though this was to Ben somewhat like a sugar-plumb to 
a child after a dose of wormwood, yet could it not so en¬ 
tirely take off the bitter, but that he was at first prodigiously 
in a humour to break with the governor. His characteristic 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


105 


prudence, however, came to his aid; and fortunately recol¬ 
lecting that it was not a common man, but a Governor, he 
was dealing with, and that such great men have their wajs 
of* doing things quite different from little people, he smo¬ 
thered his resentment, and went peaceably on board the 
ship—not even yet suspecting any fraud on the part of the 
governor. When we consider how dear to the young and 
virtuous bosom is the glow of gratitude to benefactors, we 
cannot but mourn that governor Keith should so cruelly have 
chilled those joys in the bosom of our young countryman. 
But, though chilled for a moment, they were not extinct. 
The h avy heart which he at lirst felt on being denied the 
pleasure of seeing the governor, is already much relieved by 
his gracious message through the secretary, and afterwards 
so completely cured by the sublime and beautiful scenes 
around Newcastle, that he went back to the ship in good 
spirits again. On the return of the last boat, bringing the 
mail, he modestly asked the captain for the letters which 
the governor had addressed to his care. To this the rough 
son of'Neptune replied, u that they were all there , he sup¬ 
posed, higglety, pigglefy , together in the letter bag , and 
that as the ship with a fine breeze teas getting under weigh , 
he could not spare the time now to make a search for them , 
but that before they got to London he might overhaul the bag 
and take '’em out for himself.” 

Ben was perfectly satisfied with this answer. And charm¬ 
ed at thought of the great things awaiting him in London, 
he threw off his coat and bravely joined the crew in all tlieii 
haste and bustle to weigh the anchor, and spread the sails 
before the freshening gale. 

But while the sailors, many of them at least, poor fellows, 
for lack of education, were straining at the clanking wind 
lass, or creaking halyards, as void of thought as the timber- 
heads of the ship, the spirits of Ben were in a constant suc¬ 
cession of pleasurable reflections on the magnificent scenes 
around him—the grand floating castle which bore him so 
high above the foaming billows—the rapid flight of the ship, 
as flying before the stormy winds she left the lessening 
shores behind her—the boundless fields of the blue rolling 
ocean, with all her porpoises gathering round in blackening 
shoals, bounding and blowing, as if to greet the monster 
vessel, and by their furious romps, adding to the crash and 
foam of the tempest. 

Though Ben was no poet, nor ever affected to be “ mV- 


106 


THE LIFE OF 


gious overmuch yet could he not behold such magnificent 
scenes without that adoring sense of eternal power and good¬ 
ness which has been so elegantly expressed by the sweet 
voice of Zion:— 


“Shout to the Lord, yc surging seas, 
In your eternal roar; 

Let wave to wave resound his praise, 
And shore reply to shore. 

While monsters sporting on the flood 
In scaly silver shine, 

Speak terribly their Maker—God, 
And lash the foaming brine.” 




CHAPTER XXV. 

Ben getting into trouble—-finds out his old friend governor 
Keith to be a black sheep—and learns that a good trade » 
and virtuous habits are the best wealth that a father can 
give his son. 

“ Who dares think one thing and another tell, 

My soul abhors him like the gates of hell.” 

On the arrival of the ship in the Thames (or London river) 
the captain, like an honest fellow of his word, ordered the 
letter-bag on deck, and told Ben he was welcome now to 
overhaul it and pick out the governor’s letters to him. Aftei 
eagerly turning them all over and over again, not a single 
letter could he find that had his name on it, either directed 
to himself, or to his care. He picked out however a few 
that seemed to have some little squinting that way, one 
especially, that was directed to a Printer, and another to a 
Bookseller. These he immediately carried to their re¬ 
spective owners. But in place of those smiles and prompt 
oilers of money and merchandize, which his illustrious 
patron, governor Keith, had promised him, scarcely were 
Ids letters opened before they were nearly thrown back into 
his face, as coming from a couple of scoundrel debtors, who, 
instead of paying oiT their old scores, were now impudently 
asking for new credits. 

Here were strong symptoms of treachery on the part of 
the governor. And in spite of all his credulity, Ben was 
brought to his doubtings. In this dilemma he went back to 
a worthy Quaker of the name of Denham, with whom he had 
rontrarted a great friendship on ship-board, and told him 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


107 


the whole story from beginning to end. With all his pro¬ 
fessional gravity, Denham could not help smiling, as Ben 
related the history of his credulity : but when he came to 
tell of governor Keith’s Letters of Credit , and the vast 
supplies ot Types, and Paper, and Presses, which they 
were instantly to procure him, he broke into a horse la.tgh. 
4 * He give thee letters of credit, friend Benjamin! Governor 
Keith give thee letters of credit! Why, man, he has not 
credit for himself, no not for a brass farthing, from any one 
who ever heard of him.” 

Poor Ben was struck 44 all in a heap”—dumb as a codfish. 
He stood for all the world like a shipwrecked sailor boy, 
who, after dreaming of gold and diamond coasts, and black- 
eyed Polls, and whole seas of grog, and mountains of segars, 
wakes up all at once, and finds himself, like poor Robinson 
Crusoe, on a desolate island, with not even a scape-goat of 
hope before him. In silence he rolled his eyes in woeful 
cogitation—for three months he had been feasting on the 
smiles and promises of his illustrious friend, governor Keith 
—for three months had been anticipating his grand Printing 
Establishment, in Philadelphia, and his complete triumph 
over old Keimer and Bradford—for three months he had 
been drinking in streams of rapture from the love-beaming 
eyes of the beauteous Miss Read, shortly as his wife to 
rustle in silks and roll in her carriage—but dearer still than 
all, for three months he had begn looking forward to the 
time, close at hand, when his infirm parents should come 
to enjoy with him, in Philadelphia, the welcome repose of 
their age, in an elegant retreat, purchased for them, by his 
own virtues. But lo! in a moment the whole goodlv struc- 
ture is dissipated in smoke, leaving him pennyless and 
friendless, in a strange country, three thousand miles from 
home, and at a long, long distance from all these dear 
objects! 

Denham saw in Ben’s looks what was passing in his neart; 
but knowing that it is good for virtuous and heroic minds to 
bear the cross in their youth, he suffered him to go on, un¬ 
disturbed, with his dismal cogitations. 

But a young man early trained in the school of wisdom is 
not long to be depressed. After relieving his bosom with a 
deep sigh; he turned to Denham and said, in a plaintive 
tone, 44 but teas it not cruel in governor Keith to deceive 
yne so 

44 Yes, Benjamin*” replied Denham, 44 ’twas, to our view. 


108 


THE LIFE OF 


very cruel in the governor of Pennsylvania thus to deceive 
an inexperienced lad as thou art.” 

Here Ben turning on him his tine blue eyes, softened by 
misfortune, said again to Denham, “ well , and what would 
you advise me F” 

“ Advise thee, Benjamin,” replied Denham, in a cheerful 
tone, “why, l would advise thee not to give thyself one 
moment’s uneasiness about this affair. Thee remembers 
the story of Joseph, does thee not P how he was betrayed by 
his brethren into Egypt, not only a poor lad like thee, but 
indeed a slave too ? And yet this event, though at the time 
highly disheartening, proved to him in the end, one of the 
happiest incidents of his life. So, by good management 
Benjamin, this may prove to thee. Thou art young, very 
young yet, with a plenty of time before thee; and this is a 
great city for thy business. Now if thou wilt but seek em¬ 
ployment with some printer of distinction, thou mayest make 
thyself more completely master of thy trade, and also gain 
friends, that may enable thee to settle so much more advan¬ 
tageously in Philadelphia, as to make it good for thee that 
governor Keith ever betrayed thee here. And this will be 
a triumph much to thine own honour, as also to the benefit 
of other youth, who shall ever hear of thy story.” 

As when a sweet breeze of the ocean suddenly strikes a 
becalmed ship, that with flapping sails lay tossing on the 
sluggish flood, instantly the joy-wakened billows roll a 
brighter foam, and the hearts of the sailors spring forward 
with transport to their native shores. Thus exhilarating to 
Ben’s soul was the counsel of his friend Denham. Without 
a moment’s loss of time he went, as his friend Denham had 
advised, and sought business at the offices of two of the 
most eminent book-printers in London, Palmer and Watts. 
With the latter he spent most of his time during his stay in 
England. 

This Palmer was an amiable man, and in Ben’s counte¬ 
nance, now mellowed more than ordinary, by his late dis¬ 
appointment, he saw a something that interested him greatly 
in his favour. He asked Ben in what part of London he 
had learned the art of printing. Ben told him he had never 
set a type in London. 44 Aye! where then,” said Palmer; 
“in Paris?” Ben replied, that he was just from Pennsyl¬ 
vania, in North America; and that what little he knew of 
printing he had picked up there. Palmer, though, in other 
respects, amiable, was one of those thorough-gone cockneys, 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


109 


who can’t believe that any thing can be learned out of the 
sound of 44 Bow-bell .” He stared at Ben on saying he had 
learned to print in North America, as would a French petit 
maitre at one who said he had learned to dance among the 
Hottentots . 44 1 am afraid, sir,” said he to Ben, 44 that 1 

cannot employ you, as I really felt a wish to do; for though 
I now command fifty workmen, I want a Gabber , i. e. a man 
uncommonly quick, and of a satirical turn. And in neither 
of these characters, sir, will you, probably, suit me, sir— 
however, sir, as it is late now, and I have business out, if 
you will call in the morning, we will see about it.” Next 
morning, before sunrise, Ben waited at Palmer’s office, 
where numbers of his journeymen, having heard of the 
young North American printer, were assembled to see him 
work. Palmer was not yet up. An apprentice went to in¬ 
form him that the young printer from North America, was 
come. Presently Mr. Palmer made his appearance, looking 
somewhat confused. 

44 And so you are a buckskin, sir,” said he, rather cavalierly 

44 Yes sir,” replied Ben, 44 1 am a buckskin.” 

‘ 4 Well sir, I am afraid you’ll not make your fortune fiy 
that here in London,” said Palmer. 

44 No sir,” answered Ben, 4 ‘ I find it is thought a misfor¬ 
tune here, to have been born in America. But 1 hope it was 
the will of heaven, and therefore must be right.” 

44 Aye!” replied Palmer, a little tauntingly; 44 and so you 
have preaching there too!! But do the buckskins generally 
stir so early as this ?” 

Ben replied, that the Pennsylvanians were getting to find 
out that it was cheap burning sun-liglit. Here Palmer and 
his cockneys stared at him, as country buckskins are wont 
to do at a monkey, or parrot, or any such creature that pre¬ 
tends to mimic man. 

44 You talk of sun-light , sir,” said the foreman to Ben. 
44 can you tell the cause of that wide difference between the 
light of the sun in England and America r” 

Ben replied that he had never discovered that difference. 

44 What! not that the sun shines brighter in London than 
m America—the sky clearer—the air purer—and the light 
a thousand times more vivid—and luminous—and cr.eering 
■—and all that?” 

Ben said that he could not understand how that could be, 
seeing it was the same sun that gave light to both. 

44 Idle same sun. sir! the same sun!” replied the cockney 

10 


110 


THE LIFE OF 


rather nettled, “I am not positive of that sir. But admit¬ 
ting that it is the same sun, it does not follow that it gives 
the same light in America as in England. Every thing, you 
know, suffers by going to the TVest , as the great French phi¬ 
losophers have proved; then why not the sun?” 

Ben said he wondered the gentleman should talk of the 
sun going to the west. 

“ What, the sun not go to the west!” retorted the cockney, 
quite angry, “ a pretty story, indeed. You have eyes, sir; 
and don’t these show you that the sun rises in the east and 
travels to the west ?” 

“I thought, sir,” replied Ben, modestly, “that your own 
great countryman, sir Isaac Newton, had satisfied every body 
that it is the earth that is thus continually travelling, and not 
the sun, which is stationary, and gives the same light to 
England and America.” 

Palmer, who had much of the honest Englishman about 
him, equally surprised and pleased to see Ben thus chastise 
the pride and ignorance of his foreman, put a stop to the 
conversation by placing a composing stick in the hands of 
Ben, while the journeymen gathering around, marvelled 
hugely to see the young North American take a composing 
stick in his hand! 

Having spent a moment or two in running his eyes over the 
letter cases, to see if they were fixed as in the printing-offices 
in America, and glancing at his watch, Ben fell to work, 
and in less than four minutes finished the following— 

“ And Nathaniel said, can there any thing good come out 
of Nazareth?—Philip said, come and see.” 

Palmer and his workmen were petrified. Near eighty 
letters set up in less than four minutes, and without a blun¬ 
der? And then such a delicate stroke at their prejudice and 
nonsense! Ben was immediately employed. 

This was a fine introduction of Ben to the printing office, 
every person in which seemed to give him a hearty welcome; 
he wore his rare talents so modestly. 

It gave him also a noble opportunity to be useful, which 
3ie failed not to improve. 

Passing by one of the presses at which a small man, meagre 
and hollow-eyed, was labouring with unequal force, as ap¬ 
peared by his paleness and big-dropping sweat, Ben touched 
with pity, offered to give him “ a spell .” As the pressman 
and compositor, like the parson and the clerk, or the coffin- 
maker and the grave-digger are of entirely distinct trades in 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


Ill 


London, the little pressman was surprised that Ben, who 
was a compositor, should talk of giving him “ a spell.” How¬ 
ever, Ben insisting, the little pressman gave way, when Ben 
seized the press, and possessing both a skill and spirit ex¬ 
traordinary, he handled it in such a workman-like style, that 
the men all declared they should have concluded he had done 
nothing but press-work all his life. Palmer also, coming by 
at the time, mingled his applauses with the rest, saying that 
he had never seen a fairer impression; and, on Ben’s re¬ 
questing it, for exercise and health sake , he permitted him to 
work some hours every day at press. 

On his entrance into Palmer’s printing-office, Ben paid the 
customary garnish or treat-money, for the journeymen to 
drink. This was on the first floor, among the pressmen. 
Presently Palmer wanted him up stairs, among the composi¬ 
tors. There also the journeymen called on him for garnish. 
Ben refused, looking upon it as altogether an unfair demand, 
and so Palmer himself, to whom it was referred, decided: 
insisting that Ben should not pay it. But neither justice nor 
patronage could bear Ben out against the spite of the jour¬ 
neymen. For the moment his back was turned they would 
play him an endless variety of mischievous tricks, such as 
mixing his letters, transposing his pages, breaking down his 
matter, &c. &c. It was in vain he remonstrated against such 
injustice. They all with one accord excused themselves, 
laying all the blame on Ralph, for so they called a certain 
evil spirit who, they pretended, haunted the office and al¬ 
ways tormented such as were not regularly admitted. Upon 
this Ben paid his garnish —being fully convinced of the folly 
of not keeping up a good understanding with those among 
whom we are destined to live. 

Ben had been at Palmer’s office but a short time before 
he discovered that all his workmen, to the number of fifty, 
were terrible drinkers of porter, insomuch that they kept a 
stout boy all day long on the trot to serve them alone. Every 
man among them must have, viz. 

1 A pint of porter before breakfast,—cost d. 1 £ 

1 A pint, with his bread and cheese, for breakfast, 1| 
1 A pint betwixt his breakfast and dinner, li 

i A pint at his dinner, ll 

I A pint betwixt his dinner and night, I 3 

1 A pint after his day’s work was done, Is 

6 Total, three quarts !—equal to niru pence sterling per day 1. 9 


112 


THE LIFE u* 


A practice so fatal to the health and subsistence of those 
poor people and their families, pained Ben to the soul, and 
he instantly set himself to break it up. But they laughed 
him to scorn, boasting of their beloved porter, that it was 
« meat and drink too ,” and the only thing to give them 
strength to work. Ben was not to be put out of heart bj 
such an argument as this. He offered to prove to them that 
the strength they derived from the beer could only be in pro¬ 
portion to the barley dissolved in the water of which the beer 
was made—that there was a larger portion of flour in a penny 
loaf; and that if they ate this loaf and drank a pint of water 
with it, they would get more strength than from a pint of 
beer. But still they would not hearken to any thing said 
against their darling beer. Beer, they said, was 44 the liquor 
of life” and beer they must have, or farewell strength. 

fc4 Why, gentlemen,” replied Ben, 44 don’t you see me with 
great ease carry up and down stairs, a large form of letters 
in each hand; while you, with both hands, have much ado to 
carry one? And don’t you perceive that these heavy weights 
which I bear produce no manner of change in my breathing, 
while you, with only half the weight, cannot mount the stairs 
without puffing and blowing most distressingly? Now is not 
this sufficient to prove that water, though apparently the 
weakest, is yet in reality the strongest liquor in nature, 
especially for the young and healthy?” 

But alas! on most of them, this excellent logic was all 
thrown away. 

“The ruling passion, be it what it will — 

The ruling passion governs reason still.” 

Though they could not deny a syllable of Ben’s reasoning, 
being often heard to say that, 44 the American Aquatic 
(or water drinker ) as they called him, was much stronger 
than any of the beer drinkers,” still they would drink. 

44 But suppose,” asked some of them, 44 we were to quit 
our beer with bread and cheese for breakfast, what substitute 
should we have?” 

44 Why, use,” said Ben, 44 the substitute that I do; which 
is a pint of nice oat-meal gruel brought to me from your beer¬ 
house, with a little butter, sugar and nutmeg, and a slice of 
dry toast. This, which is more palatable and still less costly 
than a pint of beer, makes a much better breakfast, and keeps 
the head clearer to boot. At dinner I take a cup of cold 
water, which is the wholesomest of all beverages, and re¬ 
quires nothing but a little use, to render it as pleasant In 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


113 


v 


this way, gentlemen, I save nine pence sterling every day, 
making in the year nearly three thousand pence! an enor¬ 
mous sum, let me tell you, my friends, to a small family; 
and which would not only save parents the disgrace of being 
dunned for trifling debts, but also procure a thousand com¬ 
forts for the children.” 

Ben did not entirely lose his reward, several of his hearers 
affording him the unspeakable satisfaction of following his 
counsel. But the major part, “ poor devils ,” as he em¬ 
phatically styled them, “went on to drink—thus continuing 
all their lives in a state of voluntary poverty and wretch¬ 
edness ! /” 

Many of them, for lack of punctuality to pay the publican, 
would often have their porter stopped.—They would then 
apply to Ben to become security for them, their light , as 
they called it, being out. I never heard that he upbraided 
them with their folly; but readily gave his word to the pub¬ 
lican, though it cost him the trouble of attending at the pay- 
table, every Saturday night , to take up the sums he had made > 
himself accountable for. 

Thus, by virtue of the right education, i. e. a good trade, 
and early fondness for labour and books, did Ben rise, like a 
young swan of heaven, above the dark billows of adver¬ 
sity; and cover himself with glory in the eyes of these 
young Englishmen, who had at first been so prejudiced 
against him. And, better still, when night came, instead 
of sauntering with them to the filthy yet costly ale-houses 
and porter cellars, he hastened to his little chamber at his 
frugal boarding-house, (only Is. 6d. per week) there to en-' 
joy the divine society of his books, which he obtained on hire 
from a neighbouring book-store. And commanding, as he 
always did, through his steadiness and rapidity at work, all 
the quick off-hand jobs , generally the best paid, he might 
have made money and enjoyed great peace; but alas! there 
was a moth in his purse which kept him constantly poor; a 
canker in his peace which filled his life with vexation. That 
canker and that moth was his young friend Ralph, whom, as 
we have seen, he had made an infidel of in Philadelphia; and 
for which good office, Ralph, as we shall presently see, re* 
Huked him as might have been expected. 

10* 


114 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


“ Who reasons wisely, is not therefore wise; 

His pride in reasoning, not in acting, lies.” 

Some years ago a certain empiric whispered in the e*ir ot 
a noble lord, in the British parliament, that he had made a 
wonderful discovery. 

“Aye,” replied the nobleman, staring; “a wonderful 
discovery, say you!” 

“ Yes, my lord, a wonderful discovery indeed! A disco¬ 
very, my lord, beyond Gallileo, Friar Bacon, or even the 
great sir Isaac Newton himself.” 

“ The d—1! what, beyond sir Isaac?” 

“ Yes, ’pon honour, my lord, beyond the great sir Isaac. 
’Tis true his attractions and gravitations and all that, 
are well enough; very clever things to be sure, my lord; but 
still nothing in comparison of this.” 

“Zounds, man, what can it be ?” 

“ Why, my lord—please come a little this way—now, 
in confidence, my lord—I’ve been such a lucky dog as to 
discover the wondrous art of raising a breed of sheep with¬ 
out. wool .'” 

The nobleman, who, it is thought, was not very nearly 
related to Solomon, had like to have gone into fits. “ What 
sir,” asked lie, with a countenance wild-staring* with amaze¬ 
ment, “a breed of sheep without wool! impossible!” 

“Pardon me, my lord, it is very possible, very true. I 
have indeed, my lord, discovered the adorable art of raising 
a breed of sheep without a lock of wool on their backs! not 
a lock, my lord, any more than there is here on the back of 
my hand.” 

“ Your fortune is made, sir,” replied the nobleman, 
smacking his hands and lifting both them and his eyes to 
heaven as in ecstasy—“ Your fortune is made for ever. Go¬ 
vernment, I am sure, sir, will not fail suitably to reward a 
discovery that will immortalize the British nation.” 

Accordingly, a motion to that purpose was made in the 
House of Lords , and the empiric was within an ace of being 
created a peer of the realm; when, most unfortunately, the 
duke of Devonshire, a district famed for sheep, got up and 
begged a little patience of the house until it could be fully 
understood what great benefit the nation was to derive from 
a flock of sheep without wool. Why, zounds! my lords,” 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


il3 

said the noble duke, 44 1 thought all along that wool was the 
main chance in a flock of sheep.” 

A most learned discussion ensued. And it being made 
apparent to the noble lords, that wool is actually the basis of 
broadcloths, flannels, and most other of the best British manu¬ 
factures—and it being also made apparent to the noble lords, 
which was another great point gained, that two good things 
are better than one, i. e. that wool and mutton together, are 
better than mutton by itself, or wool by itself, the motion 
for a title was unanimously scouted: and in place of a 
pension the rascal had like to nave got a prison, for daring 
thus to trump up a vile discovery that would have robbed the 
world of one its greatest comforts. 

Just so, to mv mind at least, it fares with all the boasted 
discoveries of our modern atheists. Admitting that these 
wonderful wizards could raise a nation of men and women 
without religion, as easily as this, their brother conjurer, 
could a breed of Merinos without wool—still we must ask 
cui bono ? that is, what good would it be to the world ? 
Supposing they could away at a dash, with all sense of so 
glorious a being as God, and all comfort of so mighty a hope 
as heaven, what benefit would it bring to man or beast ? 

But, God be praised, this dismal question about the con¬ 
sequence of discarding religion need not be asked at this 
time of day. These gentlemen without religion, like bell¬ 
wethers without wool, do so constantly betray their naked¬ 
ness, I mean their want of morality, that the world, bad as 
it is, is getting ashamed of them. Here, for example, is 
master Ralph, who, for reasons abundantly convenient to 
himself, had accompanied Ben to London—Ben, as he him¬ 
self confesses, had lent a liberal hand to make Ralph a sturdy 
infidel, that is, to free him from the restraints of the gospel. 
Now mark the precious fruits of this boasted freedom. 
Getting displeased with the parents of a poor girl, whom he 
had married, he determines to quit her for ever, as also a 
poor unoffending child he had by her, whom, by the ties of 
nature, he was bound to comfort and protect! Ben, though 
secretly abhorring this villany of Ralph, yet suffered him¬ 
self to be so enamoured of his vivacity and wit, as to make 
him an inmate. 66 We were,” says Ben, “inseparable com¬ 
panions ..” Very little cause had he, poor lad! as he him¬ 
self owns afterwards, to boast of this connexion. But it 
was fine sport for Ralph; for having brought no money with 
him from America but what just sufficed to pay his passage, 


116 


THE LIFE OF 


and knowing what a noble drudge Ben was, and also that he 
had with him fifteen pistoles, the fruits of his hard labours 
and savings in Philadelphia, he found it very convenient to 
hang upon him; not only boarding and lodging at his expense, 
and at his expense going to plays and concerts, but also 
frequently drawing on his dear yellow boys, the pistoles, for 
purposes of private pleasure. 

If the reader should ask, how Ralph, even as a man of 
honour, could reconcile it to himself, thus to devour his 
friend, let me, in turn, ask what business had Ben to furnish 
Ralph the very alphabet and syntax of this abominable les¬ 
son against himself? And, if that should not be thought 
mite to the point, let me ask again, where, taking the fear 
->f God out of the heart, is the difference between a man and 
a beast? If man has reason, it is only to make him ten- 
told more a beast. Ralph, it is true, did no work; but what 
of that? He wrote such charming poetry—and spouted such 
fine plays—and talked so eloquently with Ben of nights!— 
and sure this was a good offset against Ben’s hard labours 
and pistoles. At any rate Ralph thought so. Nay, more; 
ne thought, in return for these sublime entertainments, Ben 
ought to support not only him, but also his concubine. Ac¬ 
cordingly he went and scraped aquaintance with a handsome 
young widow, a milliner, in the next street: and what with 
reading his fine poetry to her, and spouting his plays, he got 
so completely into her good graces, that she presently 
turned actress too; and in the 44 comedy of errors,” or 
44 all for love,” played her part so unluckily, that she was 
nissed from the stage, by all her virtuous acquaintance, and 
compelled to troop off with a big belly to another neighbour¬ 
hood, where Ralph continued to visit her. 

The reader will hardly wonder, when told that Ralph and 
his fair milliner soon found the bottom of Ben’s purse. He 
will rather wonder what sort of love-powder it was that Ben 
took of this young man that could, for such a length of time, 
so fatally have befooled him. But Ben was first in the 
transgression. Like Alexander the coppersmith, lie Aad 
done Ralph 44 much harm,” and God, who is wiser than all, 
had ordained that he should be 44 rewarded according to his 
works ” 


DR. FRANKLIN 


117 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ Learn to be wise from others’ ill, 

And you’ll learn to do full well.” 

As nothing is so repellant of base minds as poverty, soon 
as Ralph found that Ben’s pistoles were all gone, and his 
finances reduced to the beggarly ebb of living/rom hand to 
mouth , he 44 cleared out ,” and betook himself into the coun¬ 
try to teach school , whence he was continually writing fine 
poetical epistles to Ben, not forgetting in every postscript, to 
put him in mind of his dear Dulcinea, the fair milliner, and 
to commend her to his kindness. As to Ben, he still per¬ 
severed, after Ralph’s departure, in his good old habits of 
industry and economy—never indulging in tobacco or gin— 
never sauntering to taverns or play houses, nor at any time 
laying out his money but on books, which he always visited, 
as frugal lovers do their sweethearts, at night. But still it 
would not all do. He could lay up nothing. The daily postage 
of Ralph’s long poetical epistles, with the unceasing appli¬ 
cation of the poor milliner, kept his purse continually in a 
galloping consumption. At length he obtained a release 
from this unpleasant situation, though in away that he him¬ 
self never could think of afterwards without a blush. 

After very frequent loans of money to her, she came, it 
seems, one night to his lodgings on the old errand— to bor¬ 
row half a guinea ! when Ben, who had been getting too fond 
of her, took this opportunity to offer freedoms which she 
highly resented. 

This Ben tells himself, with a candour that will for ever 
do him credit among those who know that the confession of 
folly is the first step on the way to wisdom. 

44 Having, at that time,’' says he, 44 no ties of religion 
upon me, and taking advantage of her necessitous situation, 

I attempted liberties (another great error of my life,) which 
she repelled with becoming indignation. She informed 
Ralph; and the affair occasioned a breach between us. 
When he returned to London, he gave to understand that 
he considered all the obligations he owed me as annihilated 
by this proceeding; and that I was not to expect one farthing 
of all the monies l had lent him .” 

Ben used to say, many years afterwards, that this conduct 
of his friend Ralph put him in mind of an anecdote he had 
some where heard, of good old Gilbert Tenant; the same 


118 


THE LIFE OF 


that George Whitefield generally called hell-fire Tenant. 
This eminent divine, believing fear to be a much strongei 
motive with the multitude than love , constantly made a great 
run upon that passion in all his discourses. And Boanerges 
himself could hardly have held a candle to him in this way. 
Nature had given him a countenance which he could, at will, 
clothe with all the terrors of the tornado. And besides he 
had a talent for painting the scenes of dread perdition in 
such colours, that when aided by the lightning of his eves, 
and the bursting thunders of his voice, it was enough to 
start the soul of lion-hearted innocence; what then of rabbit 
livered guilt P The truth is, he wrought miracles in New- 
Jersey: casting out devils—the devils of drunkenness, gam 
bling, and lust, out of many a wretch possessed. 

Among the thousands whom he thus frightened for their 
good, was a tame Indian of Woodbury, who generally went 
by the name of Indian-Dick. This poor savage, on hearing 
Mr. Tenant preach, was so terrified, that he fell down in 
the meeting house, and roared as if under the scalping knife. 

He lost his stomach: and even his beloved bottle was for¬ 
gotten. Old Mr. Tenant went to see Dick, and rejoiced 
over him as a son in the gospel;—heartily thanking God for 
adding this Indian Gem to the crown of his glory. 

Not many days after this, the man of God took his jour¬ 
ney through the south counties of New-Jersey, calling the 
poor clam-catchers of Cape May to repentance. As he re¬ 
turned and drew near to Woodbury, lo! a great multitude! 
He rejoiced in spirit, as hoping that it was a meeting of the 
people to hear the word of God: but the uproar bursting 
upon his ear, put him in doubt. 

“ Surely,” said he, “ this is not the voice of praise; ’tis 
rather, I fear, the noise of drunkenness.” And so it was 
indeed; for it being a day of election, the friends of the 
candidates had dealt out their brandy so liberally that the 
street was filled with sots of every degree, from the simple 
stagger to the dead drunk. Among the rest, he beheld his 
Indian convert, poor Dick, under full sail in the street, 
reeling and hallooing, great as a sachem. Mr. Tenant strove 
hard to avoid him; but Dick, whose quick eye had caught 
the old pie-balled horse that Tenant rode on, instantly stag¬ 
gered towards him. Tenant put forth all his horsemanship 
to avoid the interview. He kicked old Pie-ball in one flank, 
and then in the other; pulled this rein and then that; laic, on 
here with his staff, and laid on there; but all would not do; 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


119 


unless he could at once ride down the drunken beasts, there 
was no way of getting clear of them. So that Dick, half 
shaved as he was, soon got along side of old Pie-ball, whom 
he grappled by the rein with one hand, and stretching forth 
the other, bawled out, how do? how do, Mr. Tenant ?" 

Tenant could not look at him. 

Still, Dick, with his arm full extended, continued to bawl, 
44 how do. Mr. Tenant , how do ?" Finding that there was no 
getting clear of him, Mr. Tenant, red as crimson, lifted up 
his eyes on Dick, who still, bold as brandy, stammered out, 
44 -High, Mr. Tenant l d-d-d-don't you know me, Mr. Ten¬ 
ant ? Don't you know Indian Dick ? Why , sure, Mr. 
Tenant l , you are the man that converted me?" 

44 I converted you!" replied Tenant , nearly fainting. 

44 Yes, roared Dick, I'll be d-d-d-nd, Mr. Tenant, if you 
an't the very man that converted me." 

44 Poor fellow!” said Tenant, with a heavy sigh, 44 you 
look like one of my handiworks. Had God Almighty con¬ 
verted you, you would have looked like another guess sort 
of a creature.” 

From Ben’s constantly relating this story of old Tenant 
and Indian Dick, whenever he mentioned the aforesaid case 
of Ralph’s baseness, many of his acquaintance were of 
opinion, that Ben thereby as good as acknowledged, that at 
the time he took Ralph in hand, he did not altogether under¬ 
stand the art of converting; or, that at any rate, it would 
have been rnuen better for Ralph, if, as Mr. Tenant said of 
Indian Dick, God Almighty had converted him. He would 
hardly, for the sake of a harlot, have so basely treated his 
best friend and benefactor. 


q quo- 


chapter XXVIII. 

Ben resolves to return to America.—Anecdote of a rare cha¬ 
racter. 

“ A wit’s a feather, and a chief's a rod, 

An honest man’s the noblest work of God.” 

Ben used, with singular pleasure, to relate the following 
story of his Quaker friend Denham. This excellent man 
nad formerly been in business as a Bristol merchant: but 


120 


THE LIFE OF 


failing, lie compounded with his creditors and departed foi 
America, where, by his extraordinary diligence and fru¬ 
gality, he acquired in a few years a considerable fortune. 
Returning to England, in the same ship with 13en, he in¬ 
vited all his old creditors to a dinner. After thanking them 
for their former kindness and assuring them that they should 
soon be paid, he begged them to take their seats at table. 
On turning up their plates, every man found his due, princi¬ 
pal and interest, under his plate, in shining gold. 

This vvas the man after Ben’s own heart. Though he 
never found in Denham any of those flashes of wit, or floods 
of eloquence, which used so to dazzle him in Ralph, yet he 
contracted such a friendship for him, on account of hi? 
honesty and Quaker-like meekness, that he would often 
steal an hour from his books at night, to go and chat with 
him. And on the other hand, Ben’s steady and persevering 
industry, with his passion for knowledge, had so exalted him 
in Denham’s esteem, that he was never better pleased than 
when his young friend Franklin , as he always called him, 
came to see him. One night Denham asked Ben how he 
would like a trip to America? 

“ Nothing on earth would so please me,” replied Ben, 
“ if I could do it to advantage.” 

“ Well, friend Benjamin,” said Denham, “lam just 
a-going to make up a large assortment of goods for a store 
in Philadelphia, and if fifty pounds sterling a year, and bed 
and board with myself, will satisfy thee, I shall be happy 
of thy services to go and live with me as my clerk.” 

The memory of his dear Philadelphia, and the many 
happy days he had spent there, instantly sprung a some¬ 
thing at his heart that reddened his cheeks with joy. But 
the saddening thought of his total unacquaintedness with 
commerce, soon turned them pale again. “I should be 
happy indeed to accompany you,” replied he, with a deep 
sigh, “if I were but qualified to do you justice.” 

“0! as to that, friend Benjamin, don’t be uneasy,” re¬ 
plied Denham: “If thou art not qualified now , thou soon 
wilt be. And then as soon as thou art fit; I’ll send thee 
with a cargo of corn and flour to the West Indies, and put 
thee in a way wherein, with such talents and industry as 
thine, thee may soon make a fortune.” 

Ben was highly delighted with this proposal, for though 
fifty pounds a year was not so much as he could earn at 
printing, yet the prospects in other respects were so much 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


12) 

greater. Added to this, he was getting heartily tired of 
printing. He had tried it five years at Boston, three at 
Philadelphia, and now nearly two in London. At all 
these places he had worked without ceasing; had lived most 
sparingly; had left no stone unturned; and after all was 
now, in his twenty-first year, just as indigent as when he 
began! u Scurvy, starving business!” thought he to 1 im- 
selt, 44 ’tis high time to quit you! and God be thanked for this 
fail opportunity to do it; and now we will shake hands and 
pan for ever.” Taking leave now of the printing business, and 
as he believed and wished, for ever , he gave himself up en¬ 
tirely to his new occupation, constantly going from house 
to house with Denham, purchasing goods and packing them. 
When every thing was safe on board, he took a little leisure 
to visit his friends, and amuse himself. This was a rule 
which he observed through life—to do business first, and 
then enjoy pleasure without a sting. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

On the 23d of July, 1726, Ben, with his friend Denham, 
took leave of their London acquaintance, and embarked for 
America. As the ebbing current gently bore the vessel 
along down the amber coloured flood, Ben could not sup 
press his- emotions, as he looked back on that mighty city, 
whose restless din was now gradually dying on his ear, as 
were its smoke-covered houses sinking from his view, per¬ 
haps for ever. And as he looked back, the secret sigh would 
arise, for the many toils and heart aches he had suffered 
there, and all to so little profit. But virtue, like the sun, 
though it may be overcast with clouds, will soon scatter 
those clouds, and spread a brighter ray after their transient 
showers. ’Tis true, eighteen months had been spent there, 
but they had not been misspent. He could look back upon 
them without shame or remorse. He had broken no mid¬ 
night lamps—had knocked down no poor watchman—had 
contributed nothing to the idleness and misery of any 
family. On the contrary, he had the exceeding satisfaction 
to know, that he had left the largest printing-houses in 
London in mourning for Lis departure—that he had shown 
them the blessings of temperance, and had proselyted manv 

ll 


122 


THE LIFE OF 


of them from folly to wise and manly living. And though, 
when he looked at those eighteen months, he could not be¬ 
hold them, like eastern maidens, dowered with gold and 
diamonds, yet, better still, he could behold them like the 
‘ Wise Virgins,” whose lamps he had diligently fed with 
the oil of wisdom, for some great marriage supper—perhaps 
that between liberty and his country. 

After a wearisome passage of near eleven weeks, the 
ship arrived at Philadelphia, where Ben met the perfidious 
Keith, walking the street alone, and shorn of all the short¬ 
lived splendours of his governorship. Ben’s honest face 
struck the culprit pale and dumb. The reader hardly need 
be told, that Ben was too magnanimous to add to his con¬ 
fusion, by reproaching or even speaking to him. But as 
if to keep Ben from pride, Providence kindly threw into his 
way his old sweetheart, Miss Read. Here his confusion 
would have been equal to Keith’s, had not that fair one fur¬ 
nished him with the sad charge against herself—of marrying 
during his absence. Her friends, after reading his letter 
to her, concluding that he would never return, had advised 
ner to take a husband. But she soon separated from him, 
and even refused to bear his name; in consequence of 
teaming that he had another wife. 

Denham and Ben took a store-house, and displayed theii 
goods; which, having been well laid in, sold off very rapidly 
This was in October, 1726. Early in the following Feb¬ 
ruary, when the utmost kindness on Denham’s part, and an 
equal fidelity on Ben’s, had rendered them mutually dear, 
as father and son; and when also, by their extraordinary 
success in trade, they had a fair prospect of speedily making 
their fortunes, behold! 0, vanity of all worldly hopes! thev 
were both taken down dangerously ill. Denham, for his 
part, actually made a die of it. And Ben was so far gone, 
at one time, that he concluded it was all over with him; 
which afforded a melancholy kind of pleasure, especially 
when he was told that his friend Denham, who lay in the 
next room, was dead. And when he reflected that now, 
since his good patron had left him, he should be turned out 
again upon the world, with the same hard struggles to en¬ 
counter, and no prospect of ever being able to do any thing 
for his aged father, he felt a secret regret, that he was called 
back to life again. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


I&O 


CHAPTER XXX. 

Some people there a:-:e who tell us that every mail is born 
foi a particular walk in life, and that whether he will or not, 
in that walk lie must go ; and can no more quit it than the 
sun can quit his course through the skies. 

This is a very pleasing part of faith; and really there 
seems much ground for it. Certainly scripture, in many 
places, has a powerful squinting that way. And in the lives 
ot many of our greatest men, we discover strong symptoms 
of it. The great Washington was, a dozen times and more 
within an ace of getting out of the only track that could 
have led him to the command of the American armies. Bu“ 
yet there seems to have been always some invisible hand t« 
meet him at the threshold of his wanderings, and to pusi 
him back. Dr. Franklin also appears, on several occasions 
to have been at the very point of breaking oft' from the print 
ing business. But Heaven has decreed for him that walk in 
life, and in it he must move. And though blind at times, 
as Balaam’s ass, he sought to turn out of the way, yet, 
crouch as he would, he still found at every turn a good 
angel to bring him back. First he was to have been a sailor 
out of Boston—then a swimming-master in London—then a 
merchant in America. But it would not all do. And 
though in this last brilliant affair, he seemed to have effected 
his escape, losing the black-fingered printer in the sprucely 
powdered merchant, yet, comeback to the world-enlight¬ 
ening types he must—for Denham dies, and with him all 
the grand castles which Ben had built in the air. Still averse 
to the printing business, he tries hard for another place be¬ 
hind the counter , but nobody will take him in. His money 
at length gone, and every avenue to honest bread hedged up 
against him, he is constrained to take refuge in his old trade. 

Keimer, his former employer, who well knew his worth, 
waited on him, and made liberal offers if he would take 
charge of his printing-office. It must have been a sore trial 
to Ben to come under authority of a man whose ignorance 
and hypocrisy lie so heartily despised; and who, he well 
Knew, had nothing else in view, but just to get him to in¬ 
struct his numerous apprentices, and then pick a quarrel 
and pack him off. Bat bad as he hated Keimer’s vices he 
still worse hated idleness and dependence, and therefore 
he accepted his invitation. He found Keimer’s office in 


1 24 


THE LIFE OF 


the old way, i. e. quite out of order, and miserably destitute 
of letters. There being at that time no such thing in 
America, as a type-foundry, this defect appeared at first ut¬ 
terly incurable. But Ben soon found a remedy. Having 
once, while he lived in London, glanced his eye on the 
practice of this art, he thought lie could imitate it. And, 
by casting in clay, he presently created a fine parcel of let¬ 
ters in lead, which served at least, to keep the press from 
stopping. He also, on occasion, engraved a variety of orna¬ 
ments for printing—made ink—gave an eye to the shop, 
and, in short, was in all respects the factotum of the esta¬ 
blishment. But useful as he made himself, he had the mor¬ 
tification to find that his services became every day of less 
importance to Keimer, in proportion as his apprentices im¬ 
proved; and when Keimer paid Ben his second quarter’s 
wages, he did it very grumblingly, and gave him to under¬ 
stand, that they were too heavy. By degrees he became 
less civil; was constantly finding fault, and seemed always 
)n the point of coming to an open rupture. 

Ben bore it all very patiently, conceiving that his ill 
humour was owing to the embarrassment of his affairs. 

At length, however, the old wretch insulted him so grossly, 
and that under circumstances of all others the most pro¬ 
voking to a man of honest pride, i. e. in the presence ol 
neighbours, that Ben could bear it no longer; but, after- 
upbraiding him for his ingratitude, took up his hat and left 
him, begging a young man of the office to take care of his 
trunk, and bring it to him at night. 

The name of this young man was Meredith, one of Kei- 
mer’s apprentices. He had taken a great liking to Ben, be¬ 
cause that while Keimer, ignorant and crabbed, taught him 
nothing, Ben was every day giving him some useful lesson 
in his trade, or some excellent hint in morals, conducive to 
the government and happiness of his life. In the evening 
he came and entreated Ben not to think of quitting the print¬ 
ing office while he continued in it. “My dear sir,” said 
he to Ben, 44 1 beg you will take no notice of what this Kei¬ 
mer does. The poor man is always, as you see, half shaved; 
and no wonder, for he is over head and ears in debt—often 
selling his goods at prime cost for the sake of cash —con¬ 
stantly giving credit without taking any account; and there¬ 
fore cannot help shortly coming out of the little end of the 
horn, which will leave a glorious opening for you to make 
your fortune.” 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


125 


Bon replied that he had nothing to begin with. 44 O, as to 
that difficulty,” answered Meredith, 44 we can easily get 
over it. My hither has a very high opinion of you, and 
wdl, I am sure, readily advance money to set us up, pro¬ 
vided you will but go into partnership with me. I am 
no workman, but you are. And so, if you like, I will 
find the capital and you the skill, and let’s go halves in the 
profits. By spring we can have in from London, our press, 
types, and paper, and then, as my time with Keimer will be 
out, we can fall to work at once, and make our jacks.” 

As this was an offer not to be met with every day, Ren 
readily agreed to it, as also did old Mr. Meredith. 

But the old gentleman had a better motive in view than 
me pecuniary profits. He had marked, with great pleasure, 
Ben’s ascendancy over his son, whom he had already won- 
Jerfully checked in his passion for tobacco and brandy. 
And he fondly hoped, that by this connexion his son would 
be perfectly cured. 

With this hope, he desired Ben to make him out the list of 
i complete prinft/ig-office, which he immediately took to his 
merchant, with orders to import it without loss of time. Kei¬ 
mer was to know nothing of all this; and Ben, in the inte¬ 
rim, was to get work with Bradlord. 

On application, Bradford had no room. Ben, therefore, 
had to rest on his oars. This, however, was but for a short 
season: for Keimer getting a hint that he should be em¬ 
ployed to print some Nevv-Jersey paper money, that would 
require engravings and types which he knew nobody in 
Philadelphia but Ben could make; and fearful that Brad¬ 
ford, bv engaging Ben, might deprive him of the job, sent a 
very civil message to Ben, telling him that 44 old friends 
ought not to part on account of a few hasty words dropt in 
a passion ,” and concllifting with a pressing invitation to 
come back. 

Ben went back; and Keimer met him with a most cordial 
welcome. Although there was nothing in this poor old man 
to excite his esteem, yet Ben could not help feeling happy 
to see smiles of joy brightening over his witnered face; and 
ft then felt, though not for the first time, that though learn- 
’ngis a pleasant thing, yet one touch of 44 kindred sentiment 
varm at the heart,” outweighs, in pure delight, all the learn 
mg in the world. 


ll* 


126 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Keimer presently obtained what he so ardently wished, 
the printing of the New-Jersey paper-money, and flew into 
the office with the news to Ben, who immediately set about 
constructing a copper-plate press, the first that had ever 
been seen in Philadelphia. He also engraved various orna¬ 
ments and devices for the bills; and putting every thing in 
readiness for their paper-money coinage, he set out with 
Keimer for Burlington, where the New-Jersey legislature 
held their session. 

At the first sight of Ben’s paper-money, every eye was 
struck with its beauty. “ Why this Keimer must he a very 
clever old fellow!” was the cry. But others who were 
deeper in the secret, replied, “not so; young Franklin is 
the man.” Hereupon great attention was paid to Ben. 
And he was sensibly taught, that though he had been griev¬ 
ously tried and held back in the world, yet he had much 
cause of gratitude. Presently another affair arose, furnish¬ 
ing him fresh matter of congratulation, that he had ever 
paid such attention to the improvement of his mind. 

Fearing that our Philadelphia printers might strike off 
more money bills than they had been desired, the New-Jer¬ 
sey Assembly thought proper to send two or three commis¬ 
sioners to superintend the press. These gentlemen, all of 
the shrewd sort, and constantly with them while at work, 
soon found out the difference between the master and his 
young journeyman. Keimer, though a printer, had never 
been a reader. Ben had devoted all his leisure hours to 
reading. The one had ever courted pleasure in the furni¬ 
ture of his mind: the other, popularity in the decorations 
of his body. The shape of his whiskers; the cock of his 
hat; the cut of his coat, were great things with Keimer. 
Every trick at easy outside show was caught up by him. 
Among other dashes at popularity, he pretended to be a 
freemason, and was constantly grinning and makiii^ his 
signs. But it would not all do. The New-Jersey commis¬ 
sioners knew nothing of Jachin and Boaz. So that though, 
while Ben, stripped to the buff, was heaving at the press, 
old Keimer would stand by, stately as a prince at his levee, 
his attitude perpendicular as the plummet , and his feet per¬ 
fectly on the square , with his gilt snuff-box nicely poised in 
his left hand, and his right, bespangled with rings, tastily 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


27 

carrying the fragrant Maccabau to his nostrils, courting the 
commissioners—yet, as before said, it would not all do. 
The commissioners wanted new ideas, and Keimer had 
none to give them. He had a pompous way of saying yes 
or no. And this was all they could get from him in answer 
to their questions. Presently they turned to Ben, whom 
by the by, they hardly thought it worth while to interrogate, 
considering the character of his master, and his own young 
and raw appearance. But in place of the old yes and no 
of master Keimer, Ben gave them such answers to their 
questions, as at once surprised and delighted them. He 
was slow to speak, but when the commissioners, curious to 
explore his intellect, which had so unexpectedly startled 
them, purposely put a number of deep questions to him on 
the subject of their paper-money, such as its effects on agri¬ 
culture and commerce, and the laws that should regulate its 
quantity, he answered all in his own peculiar way of saga¬ 
cious brevity, that made them declare he must have studied 
nothing else all his life. The reports which these gentle¬ 
men made in his favour, produced their natural effect. Ben 
was invited every where, and treated with the most flattering 
attention; while Keimer, though his employer, was entirely 
neglected, or invited only as a compliment to Ben. 

Among the many wealthy and great ones, his admirers, 
was the inspector general, Isaac Deacon, a cunning old fox, 
and rich as a Jew. He could never rest without Ben at 
his house. 44 Young man,” said he one day, as Ben was 
hard at work, 44 I am mightily taken with you, and let me 
tell you, I never look at you without thinking of myself, as 
I was at your time of life. Now, do you know what was 
my first employment, when I was a boy ?” 

Ben replied that that was a question beyond his reach. 

44 Well then, I will tell you,, sir, if you can but believe 
me. I’ll tell you. My first employment was to carry clay 
to the brick-makers!” 

44 Impossible!” said Ben. 

44 No, indeed, not impossible at all, but very certain. 
Yes, many a hot day have I carried the clay, and so daubed 
with it all over, that my own mother would hardly have told 
me from her house pig. Well, after that I became an un¬ 
derling to a surveyor, and dragged his chain many a day 
through the woods; and all the time did not know 4 B from 
a btiWs foot .’ But the surveyor was a good man, sir, and 
taught me to read and write. Ah! them were dark times, sir, 


128 


THE LIFE OF 


dark times; all living here like Indians in the woods. A 
young man, printing his books and pictures like you, would 
have been looked on as a conjurer. And now let me tell 
you one thing. Don’t you be discouraged, but keep up a 
good heart. A little , making every day, makes a great 
deal in a long life. And I am mistaken if you don’t make a 
fortune, and come out a great man yet some of these days.” 


— ••!»© © — 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Having finished printing the New-Jersey money, Ben, 
accompanied by Keimer, set out for Philadelphia, where lie 
had scarcely arrived before in came Meredith, with a face 
of joy, and taking Ben aside, told him that their press and 
types were all come. Immediately the two friends went 
forth in search of a good house and stand, which they were 
so lucky as to find near the market, at twenty-four pounds 
a year! The fixing and putting all their things to rights, 
having consumed every penny of their money, our young 
beginners were at their wit’s end what to be at. In this 
extremity, one of their acquaintance, a Mr. George House, 
brought them a countryman who wanted some advertise¬ 
ments for a cow he had lost. Ben soon had the old cow up 
for him in a 44 staring ” shape, which so pleased the honest 
rustic, that he instantly counted them down their five 
shillings. Never did five shillings come more acceptably. 
The gratitude which Ben felt towards George House for 
this little kindness, fixed on him a determination from that 
day, 44 never to miss an opportunity to lend a helping hand to 
young beginners .” 

His favourite young Hercules, the printing-office, 
which had been so long labouring in his brain, being now 
happily brought to birth, Ben determined immediately t<s 
give it the countenance and support of another noble bantling 
of his own. I allude to his famous club, called the 44 Junto,” 
a kind of Robinhood society, composed of young men desi¬ 
rous of improving themselves in knowledge and elocution, 
and who met one night every week, to discuss some inter¬ 
esting question in morals, politics, or philosophy. 

The members at first were but few; but Ben, now a com¬ 
plete master of his pen, made such a dash with their speeches 


DR. FRANKLIN 


12“ 


m his newspaper , that the Junto soon got to be the talk of 
the town; and members were added to it daily. Ben was 
unanimously appointed moderator of the club; and in re¬ 
ward for the great pleasure and profit derived from this 
noble, mind-improving institution, the members all agreed 
to support his printing-office. This was of service; but its 
principal support was derived from a still higher source; I 
mean his own astonishing industry. No sooner was it known 
m town that Ben had set up a new paper and press, under 
the very nose of two others, Keimer’s and Bradford’s, than 
it became a matter of speculation whether it could possibly 
stand. The generality gave into the negative. But Dr. 
Bard, a shrewd old Scotchman, who well knew the effect of 
persevering industry on young men’s fortunes, laughed 
heartily at the doubters. Stand,” said he, “ gentlemen! 
Yes, take my word it will stand. The industry of that 
young Franklin will make any thing stand. 1 see him still 
at work when I return from my patients at midnight, and he 
is at it again in the morning before his neighbours are ou( 
of bed.” Ben was fairly entitled to his praise. He gene¬ 
rally composed and corrected ten to twelve thousand m’s a 
day, though it constantly took him till near midnight. But 
so intent was he on finishing this incredible task, that when 
accident had deranged a good half of his hard day’s work, 
he has been known to fall to work and set it up again before 
he went to bed. 

The reputation acquired by this industry, made such an im¬ 
pression in his favour, that the merchants, many of them, made 
him liberal offers of their stationary on credit. But, not wishing 
to have “too many irons in the fired' 1 he declined their offers, 
which added to his renutation of an industrious voung man, 
that of an upright and cautious one. This is mentioned, not 
so much for praise of the dead , as for a hint to the living. 

Business began now to make a flood-tide movement in the 
new printing-office, and Ben made such good use of it, and 

f ricked up money so fast, that he was in hopes he had near- 
y thrown all his troubles over the “ left shoulder .” But in 
this he was miserably mistaken; for presently, as if thwe 
was to be no end to troubles, there leaped out another, more 
alarming than all before. Old Meredith, finding that Ben 
had not cured his son of his drunken fits, took a miff,\ and all 
at once backed out of his promise to pav for their press and 
printing materials! and the merchant who imported these 
costly articles, and who had for some time been expecting 


ISO 


THE LIFE OF 


his money, commenced a suit, and threatened immediate 
execution! 

Poor Ben! Imagination sees him, at first, standing like a 
luckless merchant, who, after two noble ventures swallowed 
up, now beholds the breakers that are to swallow up his third, 
and last hope—“Yes,” thought he, “ but a few short weeks 
and my press and type will be under the hammer; all my 
delightful hopes annihilated; and myself turned adrift on 
the wide world again!” 

At this perilous moment, when nothing but infamy and 
ruin stared him in the face, God was pleased to cause his 
own virtues to leap forth like an armed Minerva, with 
shield and buckler tor his defence. His industry and pru¬ 
dence having,as aforesaid, been trumpeted through the town, 
the public feelings were greatly excited by his misfortunes. 
“ Shame,” said they , “ that such a young man should fall. 
As to that drunken fellow, that Meredith , no matter how soon 
he is stripped and sent to jail. But this Franklin must not 
fallfor want of a little help. It were a disgrace to the town. ” 
Accordingly several gentlemen, two at least are recorded, 
Coleman and Grace, without each other’s knowledge, called 
on him, and tendered whatever sum he should want!-—but 
hoping at the same time he would, if possible, get quit of 
Meredith, who only served to disgrace and injure him; being 
often seen at taverns and gambling tables. 

A relief so unexpected, and in a manner too so flatter¬ 
ing, produced on the mind of Ben, a satisfaction beyond ex¬ 
pression. After making the best acknowledgments lie could 
to such noble benefactors, he begged they would allow him a 
day or two to effect, if possible, an honourable separation 
from Meredith. Fortunately he found no difficulty in this: 
for Meredith, heartily sick of the business, readily agreed, 
for a small consideration, to give him up the printing-office to 
himself. Ben then called on his two friends, accepted the 
proffered supply, taking exactly one half from each for 
fear of offending either, and making full settlement with the 
Merediths, took the whole business into his own hands. 

Ben’s extreme alarm from the danger of having his print¬ 
ing-office seized, and its fortunate rescue by the amiable 
Coleman and Grace, has been very briefly narrated. But 
transient as this event may seem in our narrative, it pro 
duced on his feelings a glow of gratitude which kings might 
envy; and it led to an act which Angels would glory in. 
The reader shall hear all in good time. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


131 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Having now got the printing-office in his own hands, 
Ben began to find the unspeakable advantage of his past la 
hours to acquire ideas, and to convey them handsomely by 
his pen. The town and country getting at this time prodi¬ 
giously excited about a paper currency, Ben came out with 
a most luminous pamphlet, on 44 The advantages and dis¬ 
advantages of a paper currency.” The pamphlet gave 
such satisfaction to the legislature, that they rewarded him 
with the printing of all their money bills. His pamphlet pro¬ 
ducing the same effect on the legislature of Delaware, they 
rewarded him in the same way—as also did both these le¬ 
gislatures by throwing into his way several other jobs of 
public printing. 

Money now coming in, he went at once, and paid his 
good friends Coleman and Grace what they had so nobly lent 
him. With a light heart he then wiped off that old score of 
Vernon’s, which had given him so much uneasiness, but 
which now receipted in full , principal and interest , made 
him feel himself the freest, and therefore the happiest man 
in Pennsylvania. Money still coming in, he fitted up a few 
shelves in the front room of his printing-office, where he 
spread out an assortment of Books, Blanks, Paper and 
Quills; but all in the small way—for he always thought, 
that though 

“Vessels large may venture more, 

Yet little boats should keep near shore.” 

Like a ship that after long tacking against winds and tides, 
through dangerous straits and shallows, has at last got safely 
out on the main ocean flood, and at liberty to lay her own 
course; such was now the condition of Ben; who hereupon 
felt it his duty immediately to take on board those two grand 
guides and guardians of his voyage— religion and a good 
wife. 

As to religion—the grum looks and bitter sectarian am- 
mosities of the Christians in those wretched days, had early 
made a deist of him; and he, in turn, had made deists ol 
others, as Collins and Ralph. But on coming to test the thing 
by its fruits, he found that this new religion (deism) was not 
yet the religion he could admire. He found that poor Col¬ 
lins, with all his deism, was but a drunkard—Ralph, an un ¬ 
grateful swindler—governor Keith, a great rascal—and even 


132 


TKE LIFE OF 


nimself, though a prime deist, yet in his treatment of Miss 
Read, as culpable as any of them all. This led him to a 
train of thought which resulted in the conclusion, that though 
he could not conceive that bad actions are bad , merely be¬ 
cause revelation forbids them; nor good actions good , because 
revelation enjoins them; yet he doubted not but the former 
were forbidden, because they are hurtful , and the latter en¬ 
joined because they are beneficial to us—all things consider¬ 
ed. On this grand principle then, the inseparable connexion 
between vice and misery, and virtue and happiness, he 
determined from that day to shun the one, and embrace 
the other; thus summing up his religion in those beautiful 
lines:— 


“ What CONSCIENCE dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do; 

This teach me more than HELL to shun, 

That more than HEAVEN pursue.” 

So much for his religion. As to his wife, his behaviour ir 
this respect seems to have shown that there was some sub 
stance in the religious ground he had taken. Having, at 
the time of his sad disappointment in London, and when he 
despaired of ever marrying her, neglected his old sweetheart 
Miss Read, he resolved, now that he was getting into bettei 
circumstances, to make her all the amends in his power. 
’Tis true, her mother, who had prevented the marriage be¬ 
fore he set olf for England, and during his absence had pre¬ 
vailed on her to marry another lover, was most in fault, 
and actually acquitted him, laying the blame altogether at 
her own door.—But Ben never acquitted himself; he felt 
condemned, and would therefore accept no absolution while 
he could make reparation. He renewed his visits to the fa 
mily, who were rejoiced to see him. He saw his old sweet¬ 
heart, Miss Read; but 0 how altered from her who, former¬ 
ly bright with love and joy, used to fly to the door to wel¬ 
come his coming! How altered from her, whose rosy cheeks 
crimsoned with blushes, he so fondly kissed at taking leave 
for England, with sweetest promises of speedy return and 
blissful marriage. Pale and wan were her looks, where she 
sat silent and retired, and often deeply sighing, like one 
much troubled in mind, or crossed in hopeless love. She 
never reminded him of his “ troth and broken vows.” But 
such patient suffering served but the more co harrow up his 
feelings. Each stilled sigh sounded in his ear as a death 
bell; and each tender glance carried a point keener than the 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


1S3 


hglitmng’s fork. In a word, his heart was completely torn, and 
he had wisdom to seek its only cure —reconciliation with the 
injured. ’Tis true, pride whispered that Miss Read, having 
treated him with great disrespect by marrying in his absence, 
ought to be ‘punished. But how could he think of revenge 
on a poor girl, whom his own neglect had driven to that des¬ 
perate act! Avarice, too, remonstrated against marrying a 
woman, whose last husband had left debts which he might 
be ruined to pay. But Ben felt resolved, that as he had ren¬ 
dered this dear woman unhappy, he would restore her peace, 
whatever might be the cost. As the coming forth of the 
sun after clouds, such was the shining of conscious virtue 
on Ben’s face, after such noble resolving. As a flower aftei 
long mourning its absent sun, rejoices again in his returning 
beams; so the soul of Miss Read rejoiced in the'smiles of her 
returning lover. The hearts of her aged parents revived 
with the cheerful rose once more blooming on her pallid 
cheek; and heaven itself shed choicest blessings on their 
nappy union. 

No debts of the former husband were ever exhibited against 
them. No foe was permitted to triumph. And while old 
Keimer, after all his roguery, was fain to run away from 
his creditors to the West Indies, where he died in poverty— 
and while his successor, Harry, elated with a puff of pros¬ 
perity, and affecting the fine gentleman, soon came out 
at the little end of the horn, Ben and his lovely bride, going 
on in their virtuous toils, prospered together like twin trees 
planted by the rivers of water. Lured by her pleasant 
looks, the book-store, over which she presided, was con¬ 
stantly thronged; and equally pleased with the neatness and 
fidelity of his printing, Ben’s press was always at work. 
Happy in the tender wish to please, “each was to the other 
a dearer self.” And whether their duties called them to the 
kitchen, the book-store, or the printing-office, they still 
found, in their mutual love, that divine cordial which light¬ 
ened every burden and sweetened every care. Their table, 
though frugal, was delicious, because seasoned with smiles 
of mutual fondness. And doubly welcome the return of 
night, where Hymen, unreproved, had lighted up his sacred 
torch; and where pressed to the soft bosom of his affectionate 
spouse, the happy husband could take his fill of pure con 
nubial bliss, without remorse or dread of danger. Such 
were the benefits which Ben derived from his generous 

12 


134 


THE LIFE OF 


dealings with the afflicted Miss Read; and as a farther re¬ 
ward, it was in this self same year, that Ben was enabled to 
incorporate his grand library-company. 

This first of social blessings, a Public Library, was set 
on foot by Franklin, about the year 1731. Fifty persons 
subscribed forty shillings each, and agreed to pay ten shil¬ 
lings annually. The number increased; and in 1742, the 
company was incorporated, by the name of “The Library 
Company of Philadelphia.” It now contains eight thousand 
volumes on all subjects, a philosophical apparatus, and a 
good beginning towards a collection of natural and artificial 
curiosities. The company have lately built an elegant house 
in Fifth street, on the front of which is erected a marble 
statue of their founder, Benjamin Franklin.* 

The beneficial influence of this institution was soon evi¬ 
dent. The cheapness of terms rendered it accessible to 
every one. Hence a degree of information was extended 
among all classes of people, which is very unusual in other 
places. The example was soon followed. Libraries were 
established in various places, and they are now become very 
numerous in the United States, and particularly in Pennsyl¬ 
vania. It is to be hoped, that they will be still more widely 
extended , and that information will be every where increased. 
Phis will be the best security for our liberties. Ji nation 
who has been taught to know and prize the rights which 
God has given them , cannot be enslaved. It is in the 
regions of ignorance alone that tyranny reigns. 

In 1732, Franklin began to publish POOR RICHARD’S 
ALMANAC. 

The eloquent Charles Fox used to say, that had Doctor 
Franklin written nothing else, his “Poor Richard’s Alma¬ 
nac” were alone sufficient to immortalize him. Instead of 
being taken up, as too many Almanacs are, with trifling 
stories and fool-born jests, it abounds with the finest maxims 
on Industry, Temperance, and Frugality, thrown together 
with astonishing conciseness, and written with that happy 
mixture of gravity and gaiety that captivates every body, 
and never tires. It took a wonderful run. From 10 to 
15,000 a year were generally sold in Pennsylvania. And 
to this Almanac, in a considerable measure, may be ascribed 
that wonderful start which Pennsylvania has taken of the 


* The gift of William Bingham, E 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


13.5 


?iiddle and southern states in all the republican virtues, 
of Industry and Economy, which point the Way to 

WEALTH. 

Even the finest girls there, worth their thousands, don’t 
think it beneath them, to 44 lay hold on the distaff” like 
Solomon’s accomplished daughter, to swell the riches of the 
family wardrobe and to improve the savoury dishes of their 
parents. 

A foppish young fortune-hunter from the south, ventured 
sometime ago to pay his respects to the beautiful Miss 
Dickenson, one of the first fortunes in the state. Instead 
of finding her, as he had expected, idly lolling in a room of 
state, and bedizened in ribbands and laces, like a fairy 
queen, he found her attired in that simple dress of exquisite 
neatness which best sets oft* the rosy freshness of youthful 
beauty; and he found her, too, busied in some piece of 
domestic industry. He blushed to find her 44 at work!” 
After a world of compliments, all tending to make her out 
far too divine a creature for such disparaging employments, 
he gave her to understand that she should not thus demean 
herself if she were in Carolina. 

4i What!” replied she, with sarcastic pleasantry, 44 don't 
the youngladies with you , read Poor Richard’s Almanac?” 

Thus was this little annual visitor of Doctor Franklin’s, 
a general blessing to the Pennsylvanians, making them all 
fond of industry. And Jacob did not more naturally beget 
Joseph and his twelve brethren than does industry beget 
innocence, and health, and wealth, and cheerfulness, 
and all that lovely train of virtues, which tend to make men 
happy by driving away their vices. For who, for example, 
will ever get drunk who has no debts nor duns nor vices of 
any sort to make him uneasy? And who will ever sell his 
birthright of an honest vote for an electioneering dinner and 
a drink of grog, when he has fatted calves and wine of his 
own at home ? This is Pennsylvania all over. 

In the Almanac for the last year that doctor Franklin ever 
published, he compressed the choicest sentiments of all the 
preceding editions, and entitled it 4 4 the way to wealth.” 
It is not easy to do justice to this little work. American 
writers need not eulogize it. The British, and even the 
French into whose language it was quickly translated, have 
paid it the most flattering attention. Doctor Knox gave it a 
place in his 44 elegant extracts:” and Lewis XV. on 
hearing it read, was so charmed with the admirable sense 


136 


THE LIFE OF 


and humour of Poor Richard, that he gave orders for a new 
frigate, just launching, to be named, in honour of this 
famous nosegay of Franklin’s, Le I5on Homme Richard, 
or 44 Poor Richard.” I have heard nothing of this frigate 
or of any exploits of her’s, while she was a new ship, and in 
the French service. But this I know, that in her latter 
days she was covered over with glory. This was the ship 
on which that gallant Scot, Paul Jones, hoisted the American 
flag in the great war of the revolution. Though the Poor 
Richard mounted but 36 guns, and was old and crazy be 
sides, yet her commander had the audacity to carry her 
alongside of the Seiiapis, a British 44, and a new ship. It 
is true, the Alliance, an American frigate of the smallest 
class, was in company with the Poor Richard; but as Jones 
and his officers all declare, rendered him no assistance 
whatever. But though thus basely deserted by her consort 
in the hour of conflict with a mightier foe, yet did not the 
Poor Richard despair, but bravely grappled with her 
enemy at once, and after one of the bloodiest contests 
recorded in history, gloriously succeeded in hauling down 
her colours. The Poor Richard, however, but barely survi¬ 
ved this dreadful four hours’ conflict with such a heavy 
adversary. For as if only waiting to see the modest stars 
of liberty waving where the proud jack of tyranny had 
waved before, she bowed her head beneath a mountainous 
billow and went down-—the glorious tomb of many of her 
gallant crew, embalmed, for dear liberty’s sake, in their own 
heart’s blood. 

As the reader might think it hard, after so much said 
about it to whet his curiosity, if we did not give him a squint 
at this famous 44 Poor Richard’s Almanac,” we hasten 
now to do ourselves the pleasure to lay it before him, in 
the last and best form wherein doctor Franklin gave it to 
the public, and under the same title, viz. 44 THE WAY 
TO WEALTH,” or 44 POOR RICHARD,” improved — 
which runs thus:— 

Courteous Reader, 

1 have heard that nothing gives an author so great plea¬ 
sure as to find his works respectfully quoted by others. 
Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an 
incident l am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse 
lately, where a great number of people were collected at an 
auction of merchant’s goods. The hour of the sale not 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


137 


Dcmg come, they were conversing on the badness of the 
times $ and one of the company called to a plain, clean old 
man, with white locks, 44 Pray, father Abraham, what think 
you ot the times ? Will not these heavy taxes , quite ruin 
the country? How shall we be ever able to pay them? What 
would you advise us to do?” Father Abraham stood up. 
and replied, 44 If you would have my advice, I will give it 
you in short; 4 for a word to the wise is enough,’ as poor 
Richard says.” They joined in desiring him to speak his 
mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as follows:— 

Friends, said he, the taxes are, indeed, very heavy; and, 
if those laid on by the government, were the only ones we 
had to pay, we might more easily discharge them; but we 
have many others, and much more grievous to some of 
us. We are taxed twice as much by our idleness , three 
times as much by our pride , and four times as much by our 
folly; and from these taxes the commissioners cannot ease 
or deliver us, by allowing an abatement. However let us 
hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us; 
“God helps them that help themselves,” as poor Richard 
says. 

I. It will be thought a hard government that should tax 
its people one tenth part of their time, to be employed in its 
service: but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by 
bringing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. 44 Sloth, like 
rust, consumes faster than labour wears, while the used key 
is always bright,” as poor Richard says. 44 But dost thou 
love life, then do not squander time, for that is the stufflife 
is made of,” as poor Richard says. How much more than 
is necessary do we spend in sleep? forgetting that the sleep¬ 
ing fox catches no poultry, and that 44 there will be sleeping 
enough in the grave,” as poor Richard says. 

44 If time be of all things the most precious, wasting time 
must be,” as poor Richard says, 44 the greatest prodigality;” 
since, as he elsewhere tells us, 44 lost time is never found 
again; and what we call time enough, always proves little 
enough;” let us then up and be doing, and doing to the pur¬ 
pose; so by diligence shall we do more with less perplexity. 
44 Sloth makes all things difficult, but industry all easy; and 
ne that risctli late, must trot all day, and shall scarce over 
take his business at night; while laziness travels so slowly, 
that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy business, let 
not that drive thee; and early to bed and early to rise, makes 
a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” as pooi Richard says. 


THE LIFE OF 


<38 

So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? we 
may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. 44 In¬ 
dustry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die 
fasting. There are no gains without pains: then, help 
hands for I have no lands,"’ or if I have they are smartly 
taxed. 44 He that hath a trade, hath an estate; and he that 
hath a calling, hath an olfice of profit and honour,” as poor 
Richard says; but then the trade must be worked at, and the 
calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office 
will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, we 
will never starve; for at the working man’s house, 44 hunger 
looks in but dares not enter.” Nor will the bailiff or the 
constable enter, for 44 industry pays debts, while despair in- 
creaseth them.” What, though you have found no treasure, 
nor has any rich relation left you a legacy, 44 diligence is 
the mother of good luck, and God gives all things to industry. 
Then plough deep while sluggards sleep, and you shall have 
corn to sell and to keep.” 

44 Work while it is called to-day, for you know not how 
much you may be hindered to-morrow. One to-day is worth 
two to-morrows,” as poor Richard says; and farther, 44 never 
leave that till to-morrow, which you can do to-day.” If 
you were a servant, would you not be ashamed that a good 
master should catch you idle ? Are you then your own mas¬ 
ter ? be ashamed to catch yourself idle when there is so 
much to be done for yourself, your family, your relations, 
and your country. Handle your tools without mittens: re¬ 
member that 44 the cat in gloves catches no mice,” as poor 
Richard says. It is true, there is much to be done, and, 
perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to it steadily, and 
you will see great effects; for 44 constant dropping wears 
away stones; and by diligence and patience the mouse ate 
in two the cable; and little strokes fell great oaks.” 

Methinks I hear some of you say, 44 must a man afford 
himself no leisure?” I will tell thee, my friend, what poor 
Richard says; 44 employ thy time well, if thou meanest to 
gain leisure; and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw 
not away an hour. Leisure is time for doing something 
useful; this leisure the diligent man will obtain, but the 
lazv man never; for, a 44 life of leisure and a life of laziness 
are two things. Many, without labour would live by their 
wits only, but they break for want of stock: whereas in¬ 
dustry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect.” 44 Fly plea¬ 
sures, and they will follow you. The diligent spinner lias 




DR. FRANKLIN- 


139 


k large shift; and now I have a sheep and a cow, every 
body bids me good-morrow.” 

II. But with our industry, we must likewise be steady, 
settled and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our 
own eyes, and not trust too much to others; for, as poor 
Richard says, 

“ l never saw an oft removed tree, 

N >r yet an oft removed family, 

That throve so well as those that settled be. 

And again, 44 three removes are as bad as a fire;” and 
again, 44 keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee;” and 
again, 44 if you would have your business done, go; if not 
send.” And again, 

“ He that by the plough would thrive, 

Himself must either hold or drive.” 

And again, 44 the eye of a master will do more work than 
botli his hands;” and again, 44 want of care does us more 
damage than want of knowledge:” and again, 44 not to over¬ 
see workmen is to leave them your purse open.” Trusting 
too much to others’ care is the ruin of many; for, 44 in the 
affairs of this world, men are saved, not by faith, but by 
the want of it; but a man’s own care is profitable;” for, 44 if 
you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, 
serve yourself. A little neglect may breed great mischief; 
for want of a nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the 
horse was lost; and for want of a horse the rider was lost, 
being overtaken and slain by the enemy: all for want of a 
little care about a horse-shoe nail.” 

III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to 
one’s own business; but to these we must add frugality, if 
we would make our industry more certainly successful. A 
man may, if he knows not how to save as he gets, “keep 
his nose all his life to the grindstone, and die not worth a 
groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a lean will;” and, 

“ Many estates are spent in the getting, 

Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting, 

And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.” 

It you would be wealthy, think of saving as well as ol 
getting. The Indies have not made Spain rich because her 
outgoes are greater than her incomes. 

Away then with your expensive follies, and you will not 
then have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy 
taxes, and chargeable families; for, 


140 


THE LIFE OF 


“ Women and wine, game and deceit, 

Make the wealth small, and the want great.” 

And farther, 44 what maintains one vice will bring up two 
children.” You may think, perhaps, that a little tea, or a 
little punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes 
a little finer, and a little entertainment now and then, car 
be no great matter; but remember, “many a little makes a 
mickle.” Beware of little expenses; “a small leak wil 
sink a great ship,” as poor Richard says; and again, 44 who 
dainties love, shall beggars prove;” and moreover, “fools 
make feasts, and wise men eat them.” Here vou are all 
got together to this sale of fineries and nicknacks. You 
call them goods , but if you do not take care they will prove 
evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold cheap, 
and, perhaps, they may, for less than they cost; but, if you 
have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Re¬ 
member what poor Richard says, 44 buy what thou hast no 
need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries.” And 
again, 44 at a great pennyworth pause awhile;” he means 
that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not reai 
or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do 
thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, 
“many have been ruined by buying great pennyworths.” 
Again, 44 it is foolish to lay out money in a purchase of 
repentauee:” and yet this folly is practised every day at 
auctions, for want of minding the Almanac. Many a one, 
for the sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry 
belly, and half starved their families; “silks and sattins, 
scarlet and velvets, put out the kitchen fire,” as poor 
Richard says. These are not the necessaries of life, they 
can scarcely be called the conveniences: and yet only be¬ 
cause they look pretty, how many want to have them. By 
these, and other extravagances, the genteel are reduced to 
poverty, and forced to borrow of those whom they formerly 
despised, but who through industry and frugality have main¬ 
tained their standing; in which case it appears plainly, that 
“a ploughman on his legs is higher than a gentleman on his 
knees,” as poor Richard says. Perhaps they have had a 
small estate left them, which they knew not the getting of: 
they think 44 it is day, and will never be night;” that a little 
to be spent out of so much is not worth minding: but 
“always taking out of the meal-tub, and never putting in, 
soon comes to the bottom,” as poor Richard says; and then, 

4 when the well is dry, they know the worth of water.’ 


DR. FRAN KLIM 


14 1 


But this they might have known before, if they had taken 
his advice. 44 If you would know the value of money, go 
and try to borrow some; for he that goes a borrowing goes 
a sorrowing,” as poor Richard says; and, indeed, so tfoes he 
that lends to such people, when he goes to get it again.. 
Poor Dick farther advises, and says, 

“ Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse, 

Ere fancy you consult, consult your ^urse.” 

And again, 44 pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great 
deal more saucy.” When you have bought one tine thing, 
you must buy ten more, that your appearance may be all 
of a piece; but poor Dick says, 44 it is easier to suppress the 
first desire, than to satisfy all that follow it.” And it is as 
truly folly for the poor to ape the rich, as for the frog to 
swell to equal the ox. 

“ Vessels large, may venture more. 

But little boats should keep near shore.” 

It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Richard 
says, 44 pride breakfasted with plenty, dined with poverty, 
and supped with infamy.” And, after all, of what use is 
this pride of appearance, for which so much is risked, so 
much is suffered? It cannot promote health, nor ease pain; 
it makes no increase of merit in the person, it creates envy, 
it hastens misfortune. 

But what madness must it be to run in debt for these 
superfluities? We are offered, by the terms of this sale, 
six months credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of 
us to attend it, because we cannot spare the ready money, 
and hope now to be fine without it. But ah! think what 
you do when you run in debt; you give to another power 
over your liberty. If you cannot pay at the time, you will 
be ashamed to see your creditor; you will he in fear when 
you speak to him ; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking ex¬ 
cuses , and by degrees, come to lose your veracity , and sink 
into base , downright lying ; for 44 the second vice is lying, 
the first is running in debt,” as poor Richard says; and 
again, to the same purpose, 44 lying rides on debt’s back;” 
whereas a free American ought not to be ashamed, nor afraid 
to see or speak to any man living. But poverty often de¬ 
prives a man of all spirit and virtue. 44 It is hard for an 
empty bag to stand upright.” What would you think of 
that nation, or of that government, who should issue an 
edict, fobidding you to dress like a gentleman or gentlewo 


THE LIFE OF 


U2 

man, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you 
not say that you were free ; have a right to dress as you 
please, and that such an edict would be a breach of your 
privileges, and such a government tyrannical? And yet you 
are about to put yourself under that tyranny when you i an 
into debt for such a dress! your creditor has authority, at 
nis pleasure, to deprive you of your liberty, by confining you 
in jail for life, or by selling you for a servant, if you should 
not be able to pay him: when you have got your bargain, you 
may perhaps think little of payment; but as poor Richard 
says, 44 creditors have better memories than debtors; credit¬ 
ors are a superstitious set, great observers of set days 
and times.” The day comes round before you are aware, 
and the demand is made before you are prepared to satisfy 
it; or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term, which at 
first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely 
short; time will seem to have added wings to his heels, as 
well as his shoulders. 44 Those have a short Lent, who 
owe money*at Easter.” At present, perhaps, you may think 
yourself in thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a 
little extravagance without injury; but, 

“For age and want save while you may, 

No morning suns last the whole day.” 

Gain may be temporary and uncertain, but ever while you 
live, expense is constant and certain; and 44 it is easier to 
build two chimneys, than to keep one in fuel,” as poor Rich¬ 
ard says: so 44 rather go to bed supperless, than rise in debt.” 

“ Get what you can, and what you get hold, 

’Tis the stone that will turn your lead into gold.’ 

And when you have got the philosopher’s stone, sure you 
will no longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of 
paying taxes. 

IV. This doctrine of my friend’s is reason and wisdom; but 
after all, do not depend too much upon your ow r n industry 
and frugality, and prudence, though excellent things; for 
they may all be blasted without the blessing of heaven; and 
therefore ask that blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable 
to those that at present seem to want it, but comfort and help 
them. Remember Job suffered, and was afterwards pros 
perous. 

And now to conclude, 44 experience keeps a dear school, 
but fools will learn in no other,” as poor Richard says, and 
scarce in that; for it is true, 44 we may give advice, but we 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


143 


cannot give conduct;” however, remember this, “ they that 
will not be counselled cannot be helped; and farther, that 
“ if you will not hear reason, she will surely wrap your 
knuckles,” as poor Richard says. 

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people 
heard it and approved the doctrine, and immediately prac¬ 
tised the contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; 
for the auction opened, and they began to buy extrava¬ 
gantly. I found the good man had thoroughly studied my 
Almanacs, and digested all I had dropt on those topics du 
ring the course of twenty-five years. The frequent mention 
he made of me must have tired any one else; but my vanity 
was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was conscious, 
that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own, which he 
ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made of 
the sense of all ages and nations. However I resolved to be 
the better for the echo of it; and though I had at first deter¬ 
mined to buy stuff for a new coat, I went away, resolved to 
wear my old one a little longer. Reader, if thou wilt do the 
same, thy profit will be as great as mine. I am, as ever 
thine to serve thee. 

Richard Saunders. 


— .»>4 © — 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

44 IVHEN poverty comes in at the door” said a.shrewd 
observer, 44 /one flies out at the window .” When foolish fa¬ 
milies, 44 wasting their substance in riotous living ,” have 
fairly run their estates through the girt, and brought a host 
of hungry sheriffs and constables to the door, seizing on all 
their trumpery of fine carpets and curtains, and side-boards, 
and looking-glasses for auction , oh what sudden palpitations 
and blank looks ensue! what bitter upbraidings between 
husbands and wives, parents and children! what lyings,and 
perjuries, and secret transfers of property to cheat credi¬ 
tors ! with universal wreck of character, and conscience, 
And every thing else that can give dignity or pleasure to life! 

But while Franklin, by his famous Almanack 44 poor Rich¬ 
ard ,” was generously striving to prevent all these curses of 
doth and extravagance , his wide spread newspapers were 
scattering thousands of the finest lectures on that honest in - 
dustry and prudence , which makes nations wealthy and glo- 


144 


THE LIFE OF 


rious. And his lecturing, like one born to be the moralist 
of nations, was in that style of brevity, sprightliness, and 
nerve, that young and old, men, women, and children 
were never tired of reading. And to give more value to these 
beautiful little essays, they were always written under tne 
smarting recollection of what himself had suffered, from tne 
follies which he wished to guard others against. Witness 
first, his celebrated little story, entitled 

THE WHISTLE. 

A TRUE STORY. 

WRITTEN TO HIS NEPHEW. 

When I was a child, about seven years old, my friends, 
on a holiday, filled my pocket with coppers. I went di 
rectly to a shop, where they sold toys for children, and 
being charmed with the sound of a whistle , that I met by the 
way, in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all 
my money for it. I then came home, and went whistling all 
over the house, much pleased with my whistle , but disturb¬ 
ing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, 
understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given 
four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in 
mind what u:ood things I might have bought with the rest of 
my money; and they laughed at me so much for my folly, 
that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more 
chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure. 

This, however, was afterwards of use to me. The im 
pression continued on my mind; so that, often, when I was 
tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, 
don’t give too much for the whistle; and so I saved my money. 

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the ac¬ 
tions of men, I thought I met with many, very many who 
gave too much for the whistle. 

When I saw any one too ambitious of court favours, sa¬ 
crificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his 
liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it; I 
nave said to myself, this man gives too much for his whistle. 

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly em¬ 
ploying himself in political bustles, neglecting his own af¬ 
fairs, and ruining them by that neglect; he pays indeed, says 
l, too much for his whistle. 

If I knew a miser, who gave up every kind of comfortable 


DR. FRANKLIN 


14.1 


living; all the pleasures of doing good to others, all the 
esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent 
friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth; poor man , 
says I, you do, indeed , pay too much for your whistle. 

When I meet a man of pleasure, sacrificing every lauda¬ 
ble improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere cor¬ 
poreal sensations— Mistaken man, says I, you are providing 
pain for yourself, instead of pleasure. You give too much 
for your whistle. 

If I see one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equip¬ 
ages, all above his fortune, for which lie contracts debts, and 
ends his career in prison; alas, says I, he has paid dear, very 
dear, for his whistle. 

When I see a beautiful sweet-tempered girl, married to an 
ill-natured brute of a husband; what a pity it is, says I, that 
she has paid so much for her whistle. 

In short, I conceived, that great part of the miseries of 
mankind were brought upon them, by the false estimates 
they had made of the value of things, and by their giving 
too much for their whistle. 


The following admirable satire agains {.prejudice, can never 
be too often read by the ill-natured and hypochondrical. 

THE HANDSOME AND UGLY LEG. 

There are two sorts of people in the world, who, with 
equal advantages of life, become, the one happy, and the 
other miserable. This arises, very much, from the different 
views in which they consider things, and the effect of those 
different views upon their own minds. 

In every situation men can be placed, they may find con¬ 
veniences and inconveniences; in every company, persons 
and conversation more or less pleasing; at every table, meats 
and drinks of better or worse taste; dishes better and worse 
dressed; in every climate, good and bad weather; and un¬ 
der every government, good and bad laws, and a good and 
bad administration of those laws; in every poem, faults 
and beauties; in almost every face, and every person, fine 
features and sad defects, good and bad qualities. 

Under these circumstances, the two classes above men¬ 
tioned, fix their attention—those who are disposed to be 
happy, on the conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of 
conversation, the well dressed dishes, the goodness of the 
wine, the fine weather , &c. and enjoy all with cheerfulness. 

13 



146 


THE LI* E OF 


Those who are to be unhappy , think and speak outy of tlu 
contraries. Hence they are continually discontented them¬ 
selves, and, by their remarks, sour the pleasures of society, 
and make themselves every where disagreeable. 

Nobody loves this sort of people; no one shows them more 
than the commonest civility, and scarcely that; and this fre¬ 
quently puts them out of humour, and draws them into dis¬ 
putes. If they aim at obtaining any advantage in rank or 
fortune, nobody wishes them success, or will stir a step to 
favour their pretensions. If they incur public censure or 
disgrace, no one will defend or excuse, and many join to 
aggravate their misconduct, and render them completely 
odious. If these poor gentlemen will not change this bad 
habit, condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, with¬ 
out fretting themselves and others about the contraries, it is 
good to avoid an acquaintance with them, which is always 
disagreeable, and sometimes very inconvenient, especially 
when one finds one’s self entangled in their quarrels. 

An old philosophical friend of mine was grown, from 
experience, very cautious in this particular, and carefully 
avoided any intimacy with such people. He had, likeothei 
philosophers, a thermometer, to show him the heat of the 
weather, and a barometer, to mark when it was likely to 
prove good or bad; but there being no instrument invented to 
discover, at first sight, this unpleasing disposition in a per¬ 
son, he, for that purpose, made use of his legs, one of which 
was remarkably handsome; the other, by some accident, 
crooked and deformed. If a stranger, at the first interview, 
kept his eyes on his ugly leg more than the handsome one, 
he doubted him; if he spoke of it, and took no notice of the 
handsome leg, that was sufficient to determine my philoso¬ 
pher to have no further acquaintance with him. Every body 
has not this two-legged instrument; but every one, with a 
little attention, may observe signs of that carping, fault¬ 
finding disposition, and take the same resolution of avoid¬ 
ing the acquaintance of those infected with it. I therefore 
advise those critical, querulous, discontented, unhappy peo¬ 
ple, that if they wish to be respected and beloved by others, 
and happy in themselves, they should leave off looking at 
the ugly leg. 

u ./2 good wit will turn every thing to advantage says 
Shakespeare; and the following will show what a singular 
passion Dr. Franklin had to turn every little cross incident 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


147 


of his own life into pleasure and profit to others. He calls X 

STOOP, AND GO SAFE. 

To the late Dr. Mather , of Boston. 

Rf.v. Sir, 

When I was a boy, I met with a book, entitled, “ Es 
says to do good” which, I think, was written by your fa¬ 
ther. It had been so little regarded by a former possessor, 
that several leaves of it were torn out : but the remainder 
gave me such a turn for thinking, as to have an influence 
on my conduct through life; for I have always set a greater 
value on the character of a doer of good than any odier kind 
of reputation; and if I have been, as you seem to think, 
a useful citizen, the public owes the advantage of it to that 
book. 

The last time I saw your father was in the beginning of 
1724, when I visited him after my first trip to Pennsylva¬ 
nia. He received me in his library; and on my taking 
leave, showed me a shorter way out of the house, through a 
narrow passage, which was crossed by a beam over head. 
We were still talking, as I withdrew; he accompanying me 
behind, and I turning partly towards him, when he said 
hastily, “stoop! stoop!” I did not understand him, till I 
felt my head hit against the beam. He was a man, who 
never missed any occasion of giving instruction; and upon 
this he said to me, “ you are young, and have the world be¬ 
fore you . Stoop, as you go through , and you will miss 
many hard thumps” This advice, thus beat into my head, 
has frequently been of use to me; and I often think of it, 
when I see pride mortified, and misfortune brought upon 
people, by carrying their heads too high. 

I long much to see again my native place; and did hope 
to have been there in 1783; but could not obtain my dis- 
mission from employment here. And now I fear I shall 
never have that happiness. My best wishes, however, attend 
mv dear country. It is now blessed with an excellent con¬ 
stitution. May it last forever! 

This powerful monarchy continues its friendship for the 
United States. It is a friendship of the utmost importance 
to our security; and should be carefully cultivated. Bri¬ 
tain has not yet digested the loss of its dominion over us, 
and has still, at times, some flattering hopes of recovering it. 
Accidents may increase those hopes, and encourage dan- 


148 


THE LIFE OF 


gerous attempts. A breach between us and France would 
infallibly bring the English again upon our backs: and yet, 
we have some wild beasts among our countrymen, who are 
endeavouring to weaken that connexion. 

Let us preserve our reputation, by performing our en¬ 
gagements; our credit, by fulfilling our contracts; and our 
friends, by gratitude and kindness: for we know not how 
soon we may again have occasion for all of them.—With 
great and sincere esteem, I have the honour to be—Re¬ 
verend sir, 

Your most obedient and most humble servant, 

B. FRANKLIN. 

Passy , May 12, 1784. 


The witty little essay that follows, will show how very 
closely Dr. Franklin observed every thing around him, and 
what gross errors in education vet remain to be corrected. 

THE HUMOUROUS PETITION. 

I address myself to all the friends of youth, and conjure 
them to direct their compassionate regard to my unhappy 
fate, in order to remove the prejudices of which I am the 
victim. There are twin sisters of us, and the two eyes of 
man do not more resemble, nor are capable of being upon 
better terms with each other, than my sister and myself, 
were it not for the partiality of our parents, who make the 
most injurious distinctions between us. From my infancy 
I have been led to consider my sister as being of a more 
elevated rank. I was suffered to grow up without the least 
instruction, while nothing was spared in her education. She 
had masters to teach her writing, drawing, music, and other 
accomplishments, but if, by chance, I touched a pencil, a 
pen, or a needle, I was bitterly rebuked; and more than 
once, I have been beaten for being awkward, and wanting a 
graceful manner. It is true, my sister associated me with 
her upon some occasions; but she always made a point of 
taking the lead, calling upon me only from necessity, or tc 
figure by her side. 

But conceive not, sirs, that my complaints are instigated 
merely by vanity—no, my uneasiness is occasioned by an 
object much more serious. It is the practice in our family, that 
the whole business of providing for its subsistence fills upon 
my sister and myself. If any indisposition should attack 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


149 


my sister—and 1 mention it in confidence, upon this occa¬ 
sion, that she is subject to the gout, the rheumatism, and 
cramp, without making mention of other accidents—what 
would be the fate of our poor family ? Must not the regret 
of our parents be excessive, at having place, so great a dis 
tance between sisters who are so perfectly equal ? Alasl 
we must perish from distress: for it would not be in my 
power even to scrawl a suppliant petition for relief, having 
been obliged to employ the hand of another in transcribing 
the request which I have now the honour to prefer to you. 

Condescend, sirs, to make my parents sensible of the in¬ 
justice of an exclusive tenderness , and of the necessity of 
distributing their care and affection among all their children 
equally. I am, with profound respect, Sirs, 

Your obedient servant, 

THE LEFT HAND. 


The following essays strikingly illustrate the admirable 
wisdom and philanthropy of Dr. Franklin; and, if read 
practically , would, no doubt, greatly lessen the number both 
of physicians and patients. 

THE ART OF PROCURING PLEASANT DREAMS. 

As a great part of our life is spent in sleep, during which 
we have sometimes pleasing, and sometimes painful dreams, 
it becomes of some consequence to obtain the one kind, 
and avoid the other; for whether real or imaginary, pain is 
pain, and pleasure is pleasure. If we can sleep without 
dreaming, it is well that painful dreams are avoided. If, 
while we sleep, we can have pleasing dreams, it is so much 
clear gain to the pleasures of life. 

To this end, it is, in the first place, necessary to be care¬ 
ful in preserving health—for, in sickness, the imagination 
is disturbed; and disagreeable, sometimes terrible ideas are 
apt to present themselves. But for health, our main depen¬ 
dence is on exercise and temperance. These render the 
appetite sharp, the digestion easy, the body lightsome, and 
the temper cheerful, with sweet sleep and pleasant dreams. 
While indolence and full feeding never fail to bring on 
loaded stomachs, with night-mares and horrors—we fall 
from precipices—are stung by serpents—assaulted by wild 
beasts—murderers—devils—with all the black train of un¬ 
imaginable danger and wo. Temperance, then, is all-im* 

13 * 



150 


THE LIFE OF 


portant to sweet sleep and pleasant dreaming. But a main 
point of temperance, is to shun hearty suppers , which are 
indeed not safe, even when dinner has been missed; what 
then must be the consequence of hearty suppers after full 
dinners? why only restless nights and frightful dreams; and 
sometimes a stroke of the apjoplexy, after which they sleep 
till doomsday. The newspapers often relate instances of 
persons, who, after eating hearty suppers, are found dead in 
their beds next morning. 

Another grand mean of preserving health, is to admit a 
constant supply of fresh air into your chamber. A more 
sad mistake was never committed than that ot sleeping in 
tight rooms, and beds closely curtained. This has arisen 
from the dread of night air. But, after all the clamour and 
abuse that have been heaped on night air , it is very certain 
that no outward air, that may come in, is half so unwhole¬ 
some as the air often breathed in a close chamber. As boil¬ 
ing water does not grow hotter by longer boiling, if the 
particles that receive greater heat can escape; so living bo¬ 
dies do not putrify, if the particles, as fast as they become 
putrid, can be thrown off. Nature expels them by the pores 
of the skin and lungs, and in a free open air they are carried 
off; but, in a close room , we receive them again and again, 
though they become more and more corrupt. A number of 
persons crowded into a small room, thus spoil the air in a 
few minutes, and even render it mortal, as in the black hole 
at Calcutta.* A single person is said to spoil a gallon of 
air per minute, and therefore requires a longer time to spoil 
a chamber full; but it is done, however, in proportion, and 
many putrid disorders hence have their origin. It is re¬ 
corded of Methusalem, who, being the longest liver, may be 
supposed to have best preserved his health, that he slept 
always in the open air; for when he had lived five hundred 
years, an angel said to him, 44 arise , Methusalem , and build 
thee an house , for thou shalt live yet five hundred years 
longer .” But Methusalem answered and said, 44 If I am to 
live but five hundred years longer , it is not worth while to 
build me an house—1 will sleep in the air , as I have been 
used to dc." Physicians, after having for ages contended 
that the sick should not be indulged with fresh air, have at 
lengtl discovered that it may do them good. It is therefore 


* In India, where out of 140 poor British prisoners shut up in a close 
small room 120 of them perished in one night. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


151 


to be hoped that it is not hurtful to those who are in health, 
and that we may be then cured of the acrophobia that at pre¬ 
sent distresses weak minds, and makes them choose to be 
stifled and poisoned, rather than leave open the windows of 
a bed chamber, or put down the glass of a coach. 

Confined air, when saturated with perspirable matter,* 
will not receive more; and that matter must remain in our 
bodies, and occasions diseases; but it gives some previous 
notice of its being about to be hurtful, by producing certain 
uneasinesses which are difficult to describe, and few that 
feel know the cause. But we may recollect, that sometimes, 
on waking in the night, we have, if warmly covered, found 
it difficult to get asleep again. We turn often without 
finding repose in any position. This fidgetiness , to u^e a 
vulgar expression for the want of a better, is occasioned 
wholly by an uneasiness in the skin, owing to the retention 
of the perspirable matter, the bed-clothes having received 
their quantity, and, being saturated, refusing to take any 
more. 

When you are awakened by this uneasiness, and find you 
cannot easily sleep again, get out of bed, beat up and turn 
your pillow, shake the bed-clothes well, with at least twenty 
shakes, then throw the bed open, and leave it to cool; in the 
meanwhile, continuing undrest, walk about your chamber, 
till your skin has had time to discharge its load, which it 
will do sooner as the air may be drier and colder. When 
you begin to feel the cool air unpleasant, then return to 
your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and your sleep will 
be sweet and pleasant. All the scenes presented by your 
fancy, will be of the pleasing kind. I am often as agreeably 
entertained with them, as by the scenery of an opera. If 
vou happen to be too indolent to get out of bed, you may 
instead of it, lift up your bed-clothes so as to draw in a good 
deal of fresh air, and, by letting them fall, force it out again. 
This, repeated twenty times, will so clear them of the per¬ 
spirable matter they have imbibed, as to permit your sleen- 
ing well for some time afterwards. But this latter method 
is not equal to the former. 

Those who do not love trouble, and can afford to have 
two beds, will find great luxury in rising, when they wake 

* What physicians call ths perspirable matter, is that vapour which 
passes off from our bodies, from the lungs, and through the pores of 
the skin. The quantity of this is said to be five-eighths of what we 


152 


THE LIFE OF 


in a hot bed, and going into the cool one. Such shifting of 
beds, would be of great service to persons ill in a fever; as 
it refreshes and frequently procures sleep. A very large 
bed, that will admit a removal so distant from the first 
situation as to be cool and sweet, may in a degree answer 
the same end. 

These are the rules of the art. But though they will 
generally prove effectual in producing the end intended, 
there is a case in which the most punctual observance of 
them will be totally fruitless. This case is, when the per¬ 
son who desires to have pleasant dreams has not taken care 
to preserve, what is necessary above all things—A GOOD 
CONSCIENCE. 


ON THE ART OF SWIMMING. 

The exercise of swimming is one of the most healthy 
and agreeable in the world. After having swam for an 
hour or two in the evening, one sleeps coolly the whole 
night, even during the most ardent heat of summer. Per¬ 
haps the pores being cleansed, the insensible perspiration 
increases, and occasions this coolness. It is certain that 
much swimming is the means of stopping a diarrhoea and 
even of producing a constipation. With respect to those 
who do not know how to swim, or who are affected with a 
diarrhoea at the season which does not permit them to 
use that exercise, a warm bath, by cleansing and purifying 
the skin, is found very salutary, and often effects a radical 
cure. I speak from my own experience, frequently re¬ 
peated, and that of others, to whom 1 have recommended this 

You will not be displeased if I conclude these hasty re¬ 
marks by informing you, that as the ordinary method of 
swimming is reduced to the act of rowing with the arms and 
legs, and is consequently a laborious and fatiguing operation, 
when the space of water to be crossed is considerable; there 
is a method in which a swimmer may pass a great distance 
with much facility, by means of a sail. This discovery I 
fortunately made by accident, and in the following manner. 

When I was a boy, I amused myself one day with flying 
a paper kite; and approaching the bank of a pond, which 
was near a mile broad, I tied the string to a stake, and the 
kite ascended to a very considerable height, above the pond, 
while 1 was swimming. In a little time, being desirous of 
amusing myself with my kite, and enjoying at the same 



DR. FRANKLIN 


153 


time the pleasure of swimming, I returned, and loosing from 
the stake the string, with the little stick fastened to it, went 
again into the water, where 1 found, that, lying on my back, 
and holding the stick in my hands, I was drawn along the 
surface of the water in a very agreeable manner. Having 
then engaged another boy to carry my clothes round the 
pond to the other side, 1 began to cross the pond with m\ 
kite, which carried me quite over without the least fatigue, 
and with the greatest pleasure imaginable. I was only 
obliged occasionally to halt a little in my course, and resist 
its progress, when it appeared that, by following too quick, 
I lowered the kite too much, by doing which occasionally I 
made it rise again. 1 have never since that time practised 
this singular mode of swimming, though I think it not im¬ 
possible to cross, in this manner, from Dover to Calais. The 
packet boat, however, is still preferable. 


NEW MODE OF BATHING 

The cold bath has long been in vogue as a tonic, but the 
shock of the cold water has always appeared to me, gene¬ 
rally speaking, as too violent, and I have found it much more 
agreeable to my constitution to bathe in another element—1 
mean cold air. With this view, I rise early every morn¬ 
ing and sit in my chamber, without any clothes what¬ 
ever, half an hour or an hour, according to the season, either 
reading or writing. This practice is not the least painful, 
but, on the contrary, agreeable; and if I return to bed after¬ 
wards, before I dress myself, as sometimes happens, I make 
a supplement to my night’s rest of one or two hours of the 
most pleasing sleep that can be imagined. I find no ill con¬ 
sequences whatever resulting from it, and that at least I do 
not injure my health, if it does not, in fact, contribute much 
to its preservation. I shall, therefore, call it for the future 
a tonic air bath . 


The common saying, “ lazy people take the most pains,” 
was never more clearly exemplified than in the following 
Rquib. 

STRENUOUS IDLENESS. 

Passing the Schuylkill, one day, he saw a man sitting on 
the bridge, very earnestly looking on the cork of his fishmp 
line. “What luck? What luck?” cried the doctor. “ 1) 




154 


THE LIFE OF 


none! none!” answered our fishing hawk; 44 none yet; I have 
not been here over a couple of hours or so. ” The doctor 
pushed on. Near sun-down he returned. The man was 
still sitting and staring at his cork, like a spaniel at a dead 
set. “Well,” said the doctor, “I hope you have had a 
fine haul among the fish.” 44 Not a single one,” replied the 
man. 44 Not a single one!” quoth the doctor, amazed. 
“No, not one, sir,” answered the fisher, 44 not one; but 
I’ve had a most glorious nibble!” 


The following is a fine hint to such as have learned useful 
trades, but have not learned what is infinitely more valuable, 
I mean that divine philanthropy which alone can make their 
trades their delight, and thus strew life over with roses. 

THE SILVER HOOK. 

Doctor Franklin observing one day a hearty young fel¬ 
low, whom he knew to be an extraordinary blacksmith, sit¬ 
ting on the wharf, bobbing for little mud-cats and eels, he 
called to him, 44 Ah Tom, what a pity ’tis you don’t fish with 
a silver hook. ” The young man replied, 44 he was not able to 
fish with a silver hook.” Some days after this, the doctor 
passing that way, saw Tom out at the end of the wharf again, 
with his long pole bending over the flood. 44 What, Tom,” 
cried the doctor, 44 have you not got the silver hook yet ?” 

44 God bless you, doctor,” cried the blacksmith, 44 I’m 
hardly able to fish with an iron hook.” 

44 Poh! poll!” replied the doctor, 44 go home to your an¬ 
vil; and you’ll make silver enough in one day to buy more 
and better fish than you would catch here in a month.” 


But few have it so much in their power to do good or 
evil as the Printers. I know they all glory in Dr. Frank¬ 
lin as a Father, and are wont to name his name with vene¬ 
ration; happy would it be for this country if they would read 
the following with imitation. 

TRUE INDEPENDENCE. 

Soon after his establishment in Philadelphia, Franklin 
was offered a piece for publication in his newspaper* Being 
very busy, he begged the gentleman would leave it for con¬ 
sideration. The next day the author called and asked his 
opinion of it. 44 Why, sir,” replied Franklin, 44 1 am sorry 




DR. FRANKLIN. 


155 


to say that 1 think it highly scurrilous and defamatory 
But being at a loss on account of my poverty whether to re¬ 
ject it or not, I thought I would put it to this issue—at 
night, when my work was done, I bought a two-penny loaf, 
cn which with a mug of cold water I supped heartily, and 
then wrapping myself in my great coat, slept very soundly 
on the floor till morning; when another loaf and a mug of 
water afforded me a pleasant breakfast. Now, sir, since I 
can live very comfortably in this manner, why should I pros¬ 
titute my press to personal hatred or party passion, for a 
more luxurious living ?” 

One cannot read this anecdote of our American sage with¬ 
out thinking of Socrates’ reply to King Archilaus, who had 
pressed him to give up preaching in the dirty streets of 
Athens, and come and live with him in his splendid courts 
— “Meal, please your majesty , is a halfpenny a peck at 
Athens , and icater I can get for nothing. ” 


The letter ensuing was from Dr. Franklin to a friend of 
his, who having displeased some of his relatives by marrying 
very early, wrote to him for his opinion on that subject. 
Young bachelors would do well to read it once a month 

ON EARLY MARRIAGES. 

Dear Jack, 

From the marriages that have fallen under my observa¬ 
tion. I am rather inclined to think that early ones stand the 
best chance for happiness. The temper and habits of the 
young are not yet become so stiff and uncomplying, as when 
more advanced in life; they form more easily to each other, 
and hence, many occasions of disgust are removed. And 
if youth has less of that prudence which is necessary to 
manage a family, the parents and elder friends of young 
married persons are generally at hand to afford their advice, 
which amply supplies that defect. By early marriage youth 
is sooner formed to regular and useful life; and possibly 
some of those accidents or connexions that might have in¬ 
jured the constitution, or reputation, or both, are thereby 
happily prevented. Particular circumstances of particular 
persons, may sometimes make it prudent to delay entering 
into that state; but in general, when nature has rendered oui 
bodies fit for it, the presumption is in nature’s favour, that 
she has not judged amiss in making us desire it. Late mar- 



THE LIFE OF 


Jo6 

riages are often attended too, with this inconvenience, that 
there is not the same chance that the parents shall live to 
see their offspring educated. 64 Late children ,” says the 
Spanish proverb, 44 are early orphans .” A melancholy re¬ 
flection to those whose case it may bel With us in Ame¬ 
rica, marriages are generally in the morning of life; our 
children are educated and settled in the world by noon; and 
thus, our business done, we have an evening of cheerful lei¬ 
sure to ourselves. 

By these early marriages we are blessed with more chil 
dren; and from the mode among us, founded in nature, of 
every mother suckling her own child, more of them are 
raised. Thence the swift progress of population among us, 
unparalleled in Europe. In fine, I am glad you are married, 
and congratulate you most cordially upon it. You are now 
in the way of becoming a useful citizen; and you have es¬ 
caped the unnatural state of celibacy for life—the fate of 
many who never intended it, but who having too long post¬ 
poned the change of their condition, find, at length, that it is 
took late to think of it, and so live all their lives in a situa¬ 
tion that greatly lessens a man’s value. An odd volume of 
a set of books bears not the value of its proportion to the 
set: what think you of the half of a pair of scissors ? it 
can’t well cut any thing; it may possibly serve to scrape a 
trencher. 

Pray make my best wishes acceptable to your bride. I am 
old and heavy, or I should ere this have presented them in 
.. person. I shall make but small use of the old man’s privi 
.ege, that of giving advice to younger friends. Treat your 
wife always with respect; it will procure respect to you, not 
only from her, but from all that observe it. Never use a 
slighting expression to her even in jest; for slights in jest, 
after frequent bandyings, are apt to end in angry earnest 
Be studious in your profession, and you will be learned 
Be industrious and frugal, and you will be rich. Be sobei 
and temperate, and you will be healthy. Be virtuous, and 
you will be happy. At least, you will, by such conduct, 
stand the best chance for such consequences. I pray God 
to bless vou both! 

V 

Your affectionate friend, 

B. FRANKLIN 


As next to a Good Wife, there is but 44 one thing” to 
be compared to a handsome fortune, we advise our young 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


157 


countrymen to read the following. It needs but be read 
to be valued, and it can hardly be read and valued enough 
by all who know the value of Independence. 

ADVICE TO A YOUNG TRADESMAN. 

Remember that time is money. He that can earn ten 
shillings a day, by his labour, and goes abroad, or sits idle 
one half of that day, though he spends but six-pence during 
his diversion or idleness, ought not to reckon that the only 
expense ; he has really spent, or rather thrown away five 
shillings besides. 

Remember that credit is money. If a man let his money 
lie in my hands, after it is due, he gives me the interest, or 
so much as I can make of it, during that time. This amounts 
to a considerable sum where a man has good and large credit, 
and makes good use of it. 

Remember that money is of a very breeding prolific lid 
ture. Money begets money; and its offspring can beget more: 
and so on. Five shillings turned is six. Turned again it 
is seven and three-pence; and so on, till it becomes hun¬ 
dreds and thousands of pounds. The more there is of it, 
the more it produces, every turning; so that the profits rise 
quicker and quicker. He, who kills a breeding sow, de¬ 
stroys all her offspring, to the thousandth generation. He, 
who murders a crown, destroys all that it might have pro 
duced; even scores of pounds. 

Remember that six pounds a year is but a groat a day 
For this little sum, which may be daily wasted either in 
time or expense, unperceived, a man of credit may, on his 
own security, have the constant possession and use of an 
hundred pounds. So much in stock, briskly turned by an 
industrious man, produces great advantages. 

Remember this saying, u the good paymaster is lord of 
another man’s purse.” He who is known to pay punctually 
and exactly to the time he promises, may, at any time, and 
on any occasion, raise all the money his friends can spare. 
This is sometimes of great use. After industry and frugality, 
nothing contributes more to the raising of a young man in 
the world, than punctuality and justice in all his dealings. 
Therefore never keep borrowed money an hour beyond the 
time you promised, lest a disappointment shut, up your 
friend’s purse for ever. 

The most trifling actions, that affect a man’s credit, are 

14 


THE LIFE OF 


I f>S 

to be regarded. The sound of your hammer at five in the 
morning, or nine at night, heard by a creditor, makes him 
easy six months longer; but if he see you at a billiard table, 
or hears your voice at a tavern, when you should be at 
work, he sends for his money next day; and demands it be¬ 
fore he can receive it in a lump. 

It shows, besides, that you are mindful of what you owe. 
It makes you appear a careful as well as an honest man; and 
that still increases your credit. 

Beware of thinking all your own, that you possess; and 
of living accordingly. It is a mistake that many people, 
who have credit, fall into. 

To prevent this, keep an exact account, for some time, 
both of your expenses and your income. If you take the 
pains at first to mention particulars, it will have this good 
effect:-—you will discover how wonderfully small, trifling 
expenses mount up to large sums; and will soon discern, 
what might have been, and may for the future be saved, 
without occasioning any great inconvenience. 

Again: he, who sells upon credit, asks a price, for what 
he sells, equivalent to the principal and interest of his 
money, for the time he is to be kept out of it. Therefore, 
he who buys upon credit, pays interest for what he buys; 
and, he who pays ready money, might let that money out 
to use. So, that he who possesses any thing he has bought, 
pays interest for the use of it. 

Yet, in buying goods, it is best to pay ready money; be¬ 
cause, he who sells upon credit, expects to lose five per cent, 
by bad debts. Therefore, he charges, on all he sells upon 
credit, an advance that shall ma’ 

Those who pay for what they 
share of this advance. 

He who pays ready money, escapes, or may escape that 
charge. 

A penny sav’d is two-pence clear , 

A pin a day’s a groat a year. 

In short, the way to wealth, if you desire it, is as plan, 
as the way to market. It depends chiefly on two words: 
Industry and Frugality. Waste neither time nor money; 
but make the best use of both. Without industry and fru¬ 
gality, nothing will do; but with them every thing. He who 
gets all he can, honestly, and saves all lie gets, necessary ex¬ 
penses excepted, will certainly become rich; if that Being who 


:e up that deficiency, 
buy upon credit, pay theii 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


139 


governs the world, to whom all should look for a blessing 
on their honest endeavours, doth not, in his wise provi 
dence, otherwise determine. 

AN OLD TRADESMAN 


Every reader will be diverted with the following. 

IDLE CURIOSITY CURED. 

On his first trip, by land, to see his father in Boston, he 
was worried almost to death by the abominable inquisitive 
ness of the New England tavern-keepers. 

Neither man nor beast could travel among them in com 
fort. No matter how wet or weary, how hungry or thirsty, 
the poor traveller might be, he was not to expect an atom 
of refreshment from these silly publicans until their most 
pestiferous curiosity was first gratified. And then Job him¬ 
self could not stand such questions as they would goad him 
with; such as, where he came from—and where he might be 
a-going—and what religion he might be of—and if he was 
a married man —and so on. After having been prodigiously 
teazed in this way for several days, until at last the bare 
sight of a public house almost threw him into an ague, hi 
determined to try the following remedy at the very next tav¬ 
ern. Soon as he alighted from his horse he desired the tavern 
keeper to collect his whole family, wife, children, and ser¬ 
vants, every soul of them; for that he had something vastly 
important to communicate. All being assembled and won¬ 
dering what he had to say, he thus addressed them. “ My 
name is Benjamin Franklin. I am a printer by trade. I live, 
when at home, in Philadelphia. In Boston I have a father, a 
good old man who taught me, when I was a little boy, to read 
my book and say my prayers. I have, ever since, thought 
it my duty to visit and pay my respects to such a father; 
and I am on that errand to Boston now. This is all that 
I can at present recollect of myself that I think worth tell¬ 
ing you. But if you can think of any thing else that you 
wish to know about me, I beg you to out with it at once, 
that I may answer, and so give you opportunity to get me 
something to eat; for I long to be on my journey that I may 
return as soon as possible to my family and business, where 
I most of all delight to be.” 

Forty thousand sermons against Idle Curiosity could 
nardly have driven it so effectually out of New England as 
Jid this little squib of ridicule. 



THE LIFE OF 


160 

The following jeu d’esprit is peculiarly in character with 
Dr. Franklin. It proves that his wit and his benevolence 
were equal to every emergence, and that if he carried the 
Old Testament language in his head, he carried the Nov 
Testament spirit in his heart. 

WIT AND PERSECUTION. 

The conversation turning, one day, on persecution, a doc 
tor of divinity, distinguished for his wit, but, unfortunately, 
a little too much infected with that acrimony which is 
caught by reading books of religious controversy, took the 
part of persecution and contended that it was sometimes 
right to employ it. Franklin said, he could not think of 
any case wherein persecution was admissible among rational 
creatures. It might be very excusable in error to persecute, 
whose nature it was to see things wrong, and to get angry; 
but that for such a 44 divinity as truth,” to persecute, was, in 
his opinion, a sin against the Holy Ghost, never to be forgiven. 
After using, in his facetious manner, a variety of arguments 
honourable to wit and philanthropy, and the clergyman 
still remaining unconvinced, Franklin called out to him 
with an air of great surprise, 44 Why, my dear sir, I am asto¬ 
nished that you plead thus for persecution when it is so dia¬ 
metrically opposite to your Bible.” 

The clergyman replied, that he did not know what doctor 
Franklin meant. He thought, he said, he knew something 
of his Bible , but he did not recollect any chapter in point. 

44 No, sir!” answered Franklin, still with the took and voice 
of surprise, 44 not that memorable chapter concerning Abra¬ 
ham and the poor man! Pray, sir, favour us with your 
Bible a minute or two.” 

44 With all my heart,” replied the clergyman, 44 l should 
like to see that memorable chapter.” 

The company manifested a solicitude for the issue of the 
pending controversy—the family Bible was brought and laid 
on the table by the side of doctor Franklin. 44 Well, reve¬ 
rend sir,” said he, looking at the preacher, as lie took up 
the Bible, 44 shall I read this chapter?” 

44 Certainly,” replied the divine, settling himself in his 
chair to listen.—The eyes of all were fixed on Franklin; 
when, opening the Bible and turning back the leaves as to 
find the place, he thus audibly began:— 

The twenty-seventh chapter of the first book of Moses, 
commonly called the book of Genesis. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


161 


I. And it came to pass, after these things, that Abra- 
nam sat in the door of his tent, about the going down of the 
sun. 

2 And behold a man, bowed with age, coming from the 
way of the wilderness, leaning on a staff. 

3. And Abraham arose, and met him, and said unto him, 
turn in, I pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night, 
and thou shalt arise early in the morning and go on thy way. 

4. But the man said, nay, for I will abide under this 
tree. 

5. And Abraham pressed him greatly; so he turned, and 
they went into the tent; and Abraham baked unleavened 
bread, and they did eat. 

6. And when Abraham saw that the man blessed not 
God, he said unto him, wherefore dost thou not worship the 
most high God, Creator of heaven and earth. 

7. And the man answered and said, I do not worship th> 
God, neither do I call upon his name; for I have made to 
myself a God, which abideth always in mine house, and pro- 
videth me all things. 

8. And Abraham’s zeal was kindled against the man, 
and he arose and fell upon him, and drove him forth with 
blows into the wilderness. 

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, 
where is the stranger? 

10. And Abraham answered, and said, Lord, he would 
not worship thee, neither would he call upon thy name, 
therefore have I driven him out from before my face into the 
wilderness. 

II. And God said, have I borne with him these hundred 
and ninety and eight years, and nourished him and clothed 
him, notwithstanding his rebellion against me; and couldest 
not thou, that art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night? 

12. And Abraham said, let not the anger of my Lord 
wax hot against his servant; lo, I have sinned: forgive me, 
1 pray thee. 

13. And he arose, and went forth into the wilderness, 
and sought diligently for the man and found him: 

14. And returned with him to his tent; and when he had 
entreated him kindly, he sent him awayin the morning with 
gifts. 

15. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, for this 
thy sin, shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a 
strange land: 


14* 


162 


THE LIFE OF 


16. But tor thy repentance, will I deliver them; and the* 
shall come forth with power, and with gladness of heart, 
and with much substance. 


That witty but splenetic old bachelor, Dean Swift, used 
to say, that 44 there was no dispute which a man of a tolera* 
bly good head and heart might not easily avoid falling into, 
or honourably get out of; and, therefore, as none but fools 
ami rascals fought duels, the sooner such beasts cut each 
other’s throats, the better for the community.” This, no 
doubt, is very true, but still it is too much like striking with 
a war club, or tomahawk , to be allowed among Christians. 
The following impromptu on duelling, by Dr. Franklin, 
claims a far higher admiration. It is an arrow pointed with 
the diamond of wit, dipt in the oil of kindness, that wounds 
but to heal. 

THE FOLLY OF DUELLING. 

This most pusillanimous practice was one day made the 
theme of conversation in a large party in London, where 
Doctor Franklin dined. The philosophers and divines of 
the company joined unanimously to execrate it; and so many 
sensible and severe things were said against it, that everybody 
seemed willing to give it up to its father, the devil, except a 
young officer, whose ugly distortions showed plainly enough 
that lie did not at all relish their strictures. Soon as they 
were done, he called aloud, 44 well, gentlemen, you may preach 
as much as you please against duelling, but I’ll never pocket 
an insult for all that. No, if any man affront me, I’ll call 
him to an account, if I lose my life for it.” 

The philosophers and divines looked at each other in si¬ 
lence, like fools who had shot their last bolt. 

Here Franklin took up the cudgels; and looking at the 
young officer with a smile, said, 44 This, sir, puts me in mind 
of an affair that lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee* 
house.” 

The young fellow, rather pertly, said he should like to 
hear what had lately happened in a Philadelphia coffee-nouse. 

44 Why, sir,” continued the doctor, 44 two gentlemen were 
sitting together in the coffee-house, when one said to the 
other, for heaven’s sake, sir, sit further off, and don’t poison 
me; you smell as bad as a pole-cat.” 

44 Sir,” retorted the other, “what do you mean? Draw, 
and defend vourself.” 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


163 


“ 0, sir,” quoth the first, “I’ll meet you in a moment, if 
you insist on it; but let’s see first how that’s to mend the 
matter. If you kill me, I shall smell as bad as a pole-cat too 
And if I kill you, you will only smell ten times worse.” 

In short, that divine motto, 

“ Homo sum, nil humani a me alienum puto.” 

In English thus, 

A man I am , in man I lake a part , 

And good of mati is ever next my heart. 

has seldom been more justly applied than to Dr. Franklin. 
He seems to have been all eye, all ear, all touch, to every 
thing that affected human happiness. Did he, even at the 
early age of twenty-five, form an acquaintance with young 
persons fond of reading, but unable to purchase books? In¬ 
stantly he suggested the plan for obviating that great, great 
misfortune, by founding a Public Library; whereby, at a 
small expense in hand, and a much smaller paid annually, a 
subscriber might have his choice of books, on all subjects, 
whether of pleasure or profit. This Library, which was com¬ 
menced in 1731, by Franklin and only thirty-seven mem¬ 
bers, and no more than one hundred volumes, consisting of 
such little parcels of books as each subscriber possessed, is 
now, 1820, enlarged to six hundred members, and upwards 
of twenty thousand volumes. 

The great advantages arising from this library became so 
sensibly felt that others were soon founded; and they have 
now kindled up their salutary lights not only in several parts 
of the city, but in almost every county in the state. From 
the choicest books on Religion, Morals, History, Voyages. 
Travels, &c. thus brought home to their fire-sides and con 
stantly lying on their mantlepieces, the citizens derive ad¬ 
vantages incalculable. Their idle hours, formerly so dan¬ 
gerous, were now innocently filled up; solitude was cheered 
with a succession of new ideas; company enlivened by witty 
conversation, and labour itself sweetened by the thought of 
a beloved book at night. 

With their taste thus exalted to better pleasures, the youth 
of all classes were saved from the brutalizing sensualities tha\ 
destroy character and health. Having their understandings 
enlightened, they were led to greater virtues and usefulness. 
And being thus taught to enjoy life, they felt the strongest 
inducements to preserve it. Hence the astonishing prospe¬ 
rity of Philadelphia in industry and morals, population and 
wealth. 


THE LIFE OF 


f 64 

The mother Library now displays its twenty thousand 
volumes, in an elegant building, on the corner of Fifth and 
Chestnut. In a niche on the wall above the door is a fine 
marble likeness of Ur. Franklin at full length, presented 
by William Bingham, Esq. 

Again:—Did Franklin catch a glimpse of those poor pusil¬ 
lanimous creatures, who rather than live nobly independent 
in the pure aired country, by cultivating their own sweet 
vegetables, and raising fat poultry, will run into the sickly 
towns to sell whiskey and apples in the summer, and take 
their chance to starve and freeze in the winter? Did he, I 
say, catch a glimpse of these poor spiritless creatures with 
their children, shivering over small fires kindled by a little 
“ charity wood?” Instantly his bowels of compassion were 
stirred within him. Although he was no friend to such lazy 
self-made paupers , nor to the miserable policy that winks at 
them, yet it was impossible for him to remain unconcerned 
at their sufferings. In a letter to one of his friends, he says, 
“ since we can get no more wood for the poor, we must try 
from that wood to get more warmth for them.” He set him¬ 
self to examine the principles of the stoves generally in use. 
His genius, as usual, discovered such room for amendment, 
that he soon came out with a stove, which to this day, in 
honour of him, is called “the franklin stove,” and 
wherein one cord of charity oak would afford as much heat 
and comfort to those poor people, as two cords in the old 
way! 

Did he hear the shrill midnight cry of fire! and mark the 
deep distress of the citizens, as with tearful eyes they be¬ 
held the flames swallowing up their pleasant habitations and 
furniture ? Instantly he set himself to call up all the energies 
of the public against this dire calamity, and to point them 
to the only adequate remedy, Mutual Insurance Com¬ 
panies. 

“Man” said he, in his calls to the citizens through his 
popular newspaper, “ Man separate from man, is but a fee¬ 
ble creature; and like the filament of flax before the thread 
is formed, he is without strength, because without connexion. 
But union will make us strong, and enable us to do all things 
essential to our safety. The houses burnt every year are , 
compared with all the houses in the city , but few. find were 
all the housekeepers in the city, joined for mutual security , 
to pay a certain sum; and were that sum put to interest , it 
woxdd not only cover all the losses by fire , but ivould actually 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


165 


bring in evert, year , dear profit on his money to each sub 
scriber. 

Numbers of the citizens came into his scheme; and a large 
“ Mutual Insurance Company ,” was immediately formed, 
lt.e great benefits, foretold to flow from it, being soon 
"°alized, several others were presently set on foot: and now 
1820 ,) there are, in Philadelphia, no fewer than forty 
engines, with eight thousand feet of hose, (strong leathern 
Jpes,) to convey the water from the pumps or hydrants to 
c.e engines; whereby in less than two minutes they are in 
full play, pouring their watery cataracts on the flames. 
Hence, while for lack of one Franklin, one intelligent and 
Public spirited philanthropist, many of our promising young 
tuwns are suddenly turned to ashes, and their hapless families, 
driven out naked into the weather; the favoured citizens of 
Philadelphia, guarded by forty engines, and hundreds of 
well trained young firemen, seldom suffer any thing beyond 
a momentary pang from this most alarming element! 




CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ To him who hath shall be given , and he shall have 

abundance .” 

The life of Dr. Franklin appears to have been one con¬ 
tinued exemplification of this most animating promise; for 
scarcely had he finished that noble work just mentioned, 
before he was called to another which acquired him a still 
higher reputation, I mean his wonderful discoveries in elec¬ 
tricity, and his application of them to the preservation of 
human life and property. The manner in which this honour 
was conferred on Dr. Franklin, is enough to convince all 
honest minds that there is a kind Providence over the ways 
of men, that often turns their “ seeming evils into real 
good.” 

Among the many benefits which he derived from the dan¬ 
gerous scenes of London, where he was so severely tried, 
and where he so gloriously triumphed, was his acquaintance 
with a Mr. Collinson, of that city. This gentleman had a 
soul of uncommon sensibility to the charms of virtue. His 
first interview with Franklin, was in Watts’s printing-office. 
The sight of a youthful stranger, not yet out of his teens. 


166 


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exhibiting such practical lessons of virtue to the deluded 
young porter drinkers of London,-filled him with admira 
tion of his character. On getting acquainted with him, he 
was in pleasing doubt, whether most to esteem his heart or 
admire his head. 

When Franklin left England, the generous Collinson ac¬ 
companied him on board the ship, and at parting, the two 
friends exchanged canes, with promises of everlasting friend¬ 
ship and constant correspondence by letters. Soon as all 
London had become filled with the aforesaid rage for elec- 
tricity, and electrical experiments, Collinson wrote the whole 
history of them to Franklin, with a compliment to his genius, 
and an earnest request that he would turn it to that subject, 
and accompanied all with the present of a small electrical 
instrument. Franklin’s curiosity was excited. He imme¬ 
diately set to work; and presently made discoveries that fa* 
exceeded all that Collinson had promised himself. He dis¬ 
covered the power of metallic points to draw oft* the electrical 
matter—he discovered a positive and a negative state of 
electricity—he explained on electrical principles, the phe¬ 
nomena of the famous Leyden vial—he explained the phe¬ 
nomena of the aurora borealis, and of thunder-gusts—he 
showed the striking resemblance in many respects between 
electricity and lightning. 

1st. In giving light. 

2d. In colour of the light. 

3d. Ip. crooked direction. 

4th. In swiftness of motion. 

5th. In being conducted by metals. 

6th. In cracking in exploding. 

7th. In subsisting in water or ice. 

8th. In rending the bodies it passeth-through. 

9th. In killing animals. 

10th. In melting metals. 

11th. Firing inflammable substances. 

12th. Emitting a sulphurous smell. 

15th. In being attracted by iron points. 

“ We do not, indeed,” says he, “know that this property 
is in lightning, but since electricity and lightning agree in 
so many other particulars, is it not probable that they agree 
also in this?” 

He resolved at any rate to make the experiment. But 
foreseeing what a blessing it would be to mankind, to disarm 
the lightnings of their power to harm, he did not in the piti- 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


167 


ful spirit of ordinary inventors, cautiously conceal the dawn- 
ings of a discovery that promised so much glory to his name 
On the contrary, and with a philanthropy that throws eter¬ 
nal loveliness over his character, he published his ideas, in¬ 
viting all the philosophers to make experiments on this im¬ 
portant subject, and even pointed the way, i. e. by insulated 
bars of iron raised to considerable heights in the air. 

Immediately, metallic bars, some of them forty feet high, 
were raised towards the heavens, by sundry philosophers, 
both in France and England. But God, as if pleased with 
such disinterested virtue, determined to reserve to Franklin 
the honour of confirming the truth of his own great theory. 
H’s plan to accomplish this, was in that simplicity which 
chi acterizes all his inventions. 

To a common kite, made of silk rather than paper, be- 
.* . jse of the rain, he fixed a slender iron point. The string 
wnich he chose for his kite was of silk, because of the fond¬ 
ness of lightning for silk; and for the same reason, at the 
lower end of the string he tied a key. With this simple 
preparation, he went out on the commons back of Philadel¬ 
phia, as a thundergust was coming on, and raised his kite 
towards the clouds. The lightning soon found out his me¬ 
tallic rod, as it soared aloft on the wings of the kite, and 
greeted its polished point with a cordial kiss. With joy he 
beheld the loose fibres of his string raised by the fond salute 
of the celestial visitant. 

He hastened to clap his knuckle to the key, and behold, 
a smart spark! having repeated a second, and a third time, 
he charged a phial with this strange visitor from the clouds, 
and found that it exploded gunpowder, set spirits of wine 
on fire, and performed in all respects as the electrical fluid. 

It is not easy to express the pleasure which this clear con¬ 
firmation of his theory must have given to our benevolent 
philosopher, who had "already counted up some of the great 
services which he should thereby render to the world. 

He lost no time in communicating these discoveries to his 
friend Collinson in London, by whom they were read with 
unimaginable joy. Collinson instantly laid them before the 
Royal Society, not doubting but they would be printed 
among their papers, with the same enthusiasm which he had 
felt. But to his great mortification they were utterly re¬ 
jected. Upon this, Collinson went in high dudgeon and print¬ 
ed them himself, which was looked on as a very desperate 
kind of undertaking, especially as he chose for his bonk, a 


1(58 


THE LIFE OF 


title that seemed to carry a death warrant on its face, viz 
“New Experiments on Electricity, made at Philadel¬ 
phia, in North America.” Some ventured however to 
read the Experiments on Electricity made in North 
America, though with pretty nearly such motives as usual¬ 
ly lead people to see the learned pig, or to hear a woman 
preach. But the scoffers were soon turned into admirers. 
Discoveries so new and astonishing, presented in a manner 
so simple, struck every reader with admiration and plea¬ 
sure. The book soon crossed the British channel, and was 
translated into most of the languages of Europe. A copy 
of it, though miserably translated, had the fortune to fall 
into the hands of the celebrated Button, who immediately 
repeated the experiments and with the most complete suc¬ 
cess. Lewis XV. hearing of these curious exhibitions, ex¬ 
pressed a wish to be a spectator of them. A course of 
experiments was made before him and his court, to their ex¬ 
ceeding surprise and diversion, by Button and De Lor. The 
history of electricity has not recorded those experiments. 
But it is probable, that they were not of so comic a charac¬ 
ter as the following, wherewith Dr. Franklin would some¬ 
times astonish and delight his Philadelphia friends, during 
the intervals of his severer studies. 

I. In the presence of a large party at his house, he took 
up a pistol which he had beforehand charged with inflam¬ 
mable air, well stopped with a cork, and presented it to 
Miss Seaton, a celebrated belle in those days. She took it 
from the doctor, but could not help turning pale, as though 
some conjuration was brewing. 44 Don’t he afraid , madam ,” 
said he, “/or I give you my word that there is not a grain 
of powder in it; and now turn it against any gentleman in 
the room that you are angry with,” With a sudden blush, 
she turned it towards a gentleman whom she soon after mar¬ 
ried. In the same instant, the doctor drew a charged rod 
near the mouth of the pistol, the electric spark rushed in, 
and set fire to the inflammable air; off went the pistol; out 
flew the cork, and striking her lover a smart shock in the 
face, fell down on the floor, to the exceeding terror at first, 
but afterwards, to the equal diversion of the young lady and 
the whole company. This he called the magic pistol. 

II. At another time, in a large party at his house, all 
eager, as usual, to see some of his electrical curiosities, 
ne took from the drawer a number of little dogs, made of the 
pith of elder, with straw for feet and tails, and set them on 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


169 


the table. All eyes were lixed on him. “ Well, Miss Eliza,” 
said he, addressing the elegant Miss E. Sitgreaves, “ can 
you set these little dogs a dancing ?” “ No indeed, 1 can't,” 
replied she. “ Well,” replied he, “if 1 had such a pair of 
eyes as you have, I think 1 could do it. ” She blushed. 44 How¬ 
ever, let us see,” continued he, “ if we can't do something ” 
He then took a large tumbler from the table, which he had 
previously charged with the electric fluid, and clapped the 
tumbler over the dogs; whereupon they instantly fell to 
skipping and jumping up the sides of the tumbler, as if they 
were half mad to get out of it. This he called “the 

DANCING DOGS.” 

III. Du ring something like a levee, at his house, one night, 
a couple of ladies who had been at London and Paris, were 
speaking in rapturous terms of the splendours of those royal 
courts, and of the diamond stars which they had seen, glit¬ 
tering with more than solar lustre on the breasts of the 
Prince of Wales and the Dauphin. At length one of the 
fair orators, as if wrought up to a perfect adoration of the 
wondrous stars which she had been so elegantly depicting, 
turned to the doctor, and smartly asked him if he would not 
like mightily to have such a star. “ To kc sure, madam,” 
replied he with his usual gallantry, “ and suppose we ordei 
one?” She looked surprised. “ Boy,” continued he, 
“ bring me down one of my electrical jars, and put it on the 
sideboard.” While the servant was gone, the doctor took a 
plate of tin, and cutting it into a dozen angles, like a star, 
poised it on a wire projecting from his prime conductor. 
44 Well now, ladies, put out the candles, and you shall see a 
star not inferior to that of the prince of Wales.” The can¬ 
dles were put out, and a turn or two of the jar being made, 
the lightning flew to the plate of tin, and appeared at the 
extremities of its angles, in a blaze of light beautiful as the 
morning star. This he called “the electric star.” 

IV. On his sideboard was placed an electrical jar, con¬ 
cealed behind a large picture of a man dressed in purple and 
fine linen. At a short distance stood a little brass pillar, 
in front of which was the picture of a poor man lying down 
ragged and wan as Lazarus. From the ceiling, and reach¬ 
ing down to the sideboard, was suspended by a fine thread, 
the picture of a boy, with a face benevolent and beautiful as 
a youthful cherub. “ Well, now, gentlemen, do you know 
who these are?—This is the proud, unfeeling Dives; that, 
the poor dying Lazarus ; and here is a beautiful boy, that 

15 


.70 


THE LIFE OF 


for humanity's sake, we will call the son of Dives. iSoiu 
gentlemen , can cmy of you make this lovely child the minister 
of Dives' bounty to poor Lazarus ?" 

They all confessed their inability; regarding him at the 
same time with an eye of expectation. Without being no¬ 
ticed by his company, he charged the jar behind the picture 
of Dives with electric fluid from his prime conductor. In¬ 
stantly, the beauteous youth flew to it, and getting charged 
flew to the brass pillar behind Lazarus, which possessed no 
electricity, and imparted to it his whole load. He then flew 
back to the jar of Dives, and receiving a second supply, has¬ 
tened to poor Lazarus and emptied himself again. And 
thus it went on to the astonishment of the spectators, alter¬ 
nately receiving and imparting until it had established a 
balance between them, and then, as if satisfied, it came to a 
pause. 

Seeing their surprise, the doctor thus went on. “ Well, 
now, gentleman, here is a fine lesson for us all. This elec¬ 
tric fluid, which you saw animating that youth, came down 
from heaven to teach us that men were as assuredly de¬ 
signed to be helpmates to men, as were the two eyes, the 
two feet, or the two hands, to assist one another. And if 
all who are overcharged with this world’s riches would but 
imitate this good little electrical angel, and impart of their 
superabundance to the empty and the poor, they would, no 
doubt, even in this world, find a much higher pleasure than 
in hoarding it up for ungrateful heirs, or spending it on 
vanity.” This he called “ Dives and Lazarus.” 

But it were an endless task to enumerate all the rare and 
beautiful phenomena, wherewith he would surprise and de¬ 
light the vast circles of friends and citizens, whose curiosity 
was so pressing, that, as he says, it almost wore him out. 

Sometimes, in order to show them the force of electricity 
he would turn his wires against a pack of cards, or a quire 
of paper, and the subtle fluid would instantly dart through, 
leaving a beautiful perforation like the puncture of a large 
needle. 

Sometimes, to show the wondrous qualities of electricity, 
he would let them see it darting, like a diamond bead, 
through a long cylinder of water, not hurt, like other fires, 
by that element. 

Sometimes he would place a young lady, generally the 
handsomest of the company r on his electrical stool; then by 
slily touching her dress with his magic wand, he would so 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


171 


till her lovely frame with the electric fluid, that, on the ap¬ 
proach of any young gentleman to kiss her, a spark from 
her ruby lips would suddenly drive him frightened and stag¬ 
gering back. This was called the “ magic kiss.” 

Sometimes he would fix figures of horses cut in paper, on 
wires nicely poised, so as to move in circles round his prime 
conductor, then, from his magic wand, he would dash on 
them a stream of mimic lightning, which, potent as the 
whips and spurs of Newmarket, would set them all in full 
speed, bending and buckling with glorious emulation in the 
beautiful contest, to the great amusement of the spectators. 
The public named this the “electrical horse race.” 

Sometimes he would suspend, near the ceiling, a large 
flock of finely picked cotton, or place on a distant table, a 
paper of gunpowder; then from his wires, artfully directed, 
he would send a flash of lightning, instantly exploding the 
powder, and wrapping the cotton into a blaze. 

Sometimes he would take the model of a double-geared 
water mill, turning two pair of stones, and placing it near 
his prime conductor, direct a stream of electric fire against 
the large wheel, setting it in motion, and with it the whole 
machinery of his mill, to the equal surprise and pleasure of 
the beholders. 

Sometimes he would take the figures of the sun, moon, 
and earth, cut in papers, and fix them on wires, nicely 
balanced. Then, by the force of the electric fluid, he would 
set them a-going in most harmonious style—the earth re¬ 
volving round her own axis; the moon round the earth; and 
both round the sun; all exactly according to the course 
which the hand of the Creator had prescribed to these 
mighty orbs. 

For the sake of those who have never considered this 
wonderful attraction of lightning to iron rods, I beg leave to 
relate the following very extraordinary and daring experi¬ 
ments of Dr. FranMin. 

In a large chamber, which he kept for his electrical appa 
ratus and experiments, he suspended a number of bells, all 
connected by wires, and communicating, through the gable 
end of the house, with the large lightning rods that de ¬ 
scended along the chimney to the ground. His aim in this 
contrivance was, that he might know whenever a lightning 
cloud passed over his house in the night; and also what 
freight of electrical fluid it carried about with it. For, as 
•t seldom passes, without paying a loving visit to his rod, sg 


172 


THE LIFE OF 


it always told, with great honesty, the amount of its in¬ 
flammable cargo, especially if it was ample; in which case, 
it was always sure to set the bells a ringing at a terrible rate 

And besides these, he had numbers of men and women of 
the Lilliputian stature, cut in paper, and so artfully at¬ 
tached to the clappers, that as soon as the bells began to 
ring, the men and women began to dance also, and all ot 
them more and more merrily, according as this extraordinary 
kind of music played up more briskly. But though, for the 
amusement of his friends, Franklin would sometimes set his 
bells and dolls to ringing and dancing, by his electricity, 
yet his main object was, to invite the lightnings to be the 
bell ringers, and dancing masters to his puppets, that, as 
before observed, he might become better acquainted with 
the nature of lightning, and thus extend his electrical ex 
periments and knowledge. 

But it must be owned, that when the lightnings were 
drawn down for this purpose among the bells and wires ot 
his chamber, the entertainment was almost too terrible to 
be agreeable to any but philosophers. 

The elegant J. Dickinson, Esq. informed me, that he was 
at Dr. Franklin’s one evening, with a large party, when a 
dreadful cloud began to rise, with distant thunder and 
lightning. The ladies, panic struck, as usual, were all in a 
prodigious bustle for their bonnets, to get home. The doc¬ 
tor entreated them not to be frightened; for that they were 
in the safest house in Philadelphia; and indeed, jokingly 
offered to underwrite their lives at the low premium of a 
groat a head. 

When the storm was near its worst, he invited his com 
pany up into his large chamber. A glimmering light fainth 
showed them his electrical apparatus of globes, cylinders, 
bells, wires, and the Lord knows what, conveying to those 
of the superstitious sort, a strong idea of a magic cell, or a 
uaunted castle, at least. Presently a dreadful clap of thun¬ 
der shook the house over their heads, the chamber was filled 
with vivid lightnings, darting like fiery serpents, crackling 
and hissing along the wire all around them, while the strong 
smell of sulphur, together with the screams of the poor la¬ 
dies, and the ringing of the bells, completed the terrible¬ 
ness of the scene, inspiring a fearful sense of the invisible 
world. 

44 But all these things, gentlemen,” he would say, smiling 
dl the time on his crowding and gaping friends, as a parent 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


173 


on his children, whom he saw surprised at small matters, 
“ all these things are mere nothings ; the childish sportings 
of an art but yet in its cradle. Electricity, gentlemen, is of 
the terrible family of lightning, that most powerful of the 
works of God on this globe, and the chosen instrument of 
most of his operations here below. It is the electric fluid, 
(passing from a full cloud to an empty one,) that makes his 
voice, and that, as the scripture says, a terrible voice , even 
the thunder, to terrify the guilty, and to increase in the 
virtuous a becoming reverence of the Creator. For if the 
electric fluid passing from a small jar, cause so loud a 
crack, why should we wonder at the dreadful peals of thun¬ 
der that are occasioned, when thousands anil myriads of 
acres of clouds are throwing off their electric fluid in rivers 
of living fires, sufficient to blow up the globe itself, if the 
Almighty were but to let loose his hold on these furious 
agents. And this electric fluid is that same lightning which, 
as David says, shines out from one end of Heaven to another , 
and that so instantaneously, that were all the men, women, 
and children, on earth, joining hands, to form a ring round 
this great globe, an electric shock given to the first person 
in that ring, would so suddenly reach the last, that they 
themselves would probably be at a loss to determine which 
of them received it first. 

Thus the electric fluid, in the form of lightning, serves 
also in the hand of heaven as the red rod to restrain the 
vicious. Does the benevolent governor of the world seek to 
impress a salutary awe on the gambler, the drunkard, and 
such immoral characters, whose lives are in constant oppo¬ 
sition to their own and the happiness of others ? He but 
speaks to his ready ministers, the lightnings. Quickly, 
from the sultry cloud, coming up with muttering thunder, 
black and terrible as nature’s approaching pall, the fright¬ 
ening flash bursts forth, rending the trees and houses over 
their heads; killing their flocks and herds; and filling the 
air with smoking sulphur, a strong memento of that dismal 
place to which their evil practices are leading them. And 
when, to unthinking mortals, he sees fit to read instruction 
in a wider scale, he only needs but beckon to the electric 
fluid. Straightway this subtle servant of his power rushes 
forth, clad in various forms of terror, sometimes as the roar¬ 
ing whirlwind, unroofing the palaces of kings, and desolat¬ 
ing the forests in its course. Sometimes with dreadful stride 
it rushes forth upon the ; howling wilderness of waves,’ in 

15 * 


174 


THE LIFE OF 


shape of the funnelled water-spout, with hideous roar and 
foam, whirling the frightened billows to the clouds, or dash¬ 
ing them back with thundering crash into their dismal 
gulphs; while the hearts of the seamen, looking on, sink 
with terror at the sight, and even sharks and sea-monsters 
fly for refuge to their oozy caverns. 

“ Sometimes, with the bolder aim of the earthquake, it 
strikes both sea and land at once, sending the frightened 
globe bellowing and trembling along her orbit, sadly pon¬ 
dering the coming day, when the measure of sin being filled 
up, she shall be wrapt in these same electric fires , perhaps, 
and lose her place for ever among the starry train.” 

But though the experiments above mentioned are highly cu¬ 
rious; and also Dr. Franklin’s reflections on them abundantly 
philosophical and correct, for what I know, yet the world 
should learn that the gratification of public curiosity formed 
but a very small part of his many and grand discoveries in 
electricity. For soon as he had ascertained that lightning 
was tlm same thing with the electric fluid, and like it, so 
passionately fond of iron that it would forsake every thing 
else in its course, to run along upon that beloved metal, he 
conceived the plan of putting this discovery to those benefi¬ 
cent uses for which alone he thought the power of discovery 
was given to man, and which alone can consecrate it to the 
divine Giver. 

“ The grand practical use ,” says the learned Mr. Imini- 
son, who, though a Scotch monarchist himself, had the ex¬ 
traordinary virtue to be a profound admirer of our republi¬ 
can American,—“ the grand practical use which Dr. Frank¬ 
lin made of this discovery was to secure houses and ships 
from being damaged by lightning; a thing of vast conse¬ 
quence in all parts of the world, but more especially in 
North America, where thundergusts are more frequent and 
their effects, in that dry air, more dreadful than they are 
ever known to be with us. This great end he accomplished 
by the cheap, and seemingly trifling, apparatus of a pointed 
metallic rod, fixed higher than any part of the building, and 
communicating with the ground, or rather the nearest water. 
This rod the lightning is sure to seize upon preferably to 
my other part of the building, unless it be very large; in 
which case, rods may be erected at each extremity; by 
which means this dangerous power is safely conducted to the 
earth, and dissipated without doing any harm to the edifice.” 

Had any thing more been necessary to convince the world 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


175 


of the value of lightning rods to buildings, it was abundant!) 
furnished bj several very terrible instances of destruction 
which took place about this time in several parts of America, 
for no other reason upon earth, as every one must admit who 
reads the account, but the want of lightning rods. 

There, for example, was the affair of the new church, in 
the town of Newberry, New-England. This stately build¬ 
ing was adorned on its north end with an elegant steeple or 
tower of wood, running up in a fine square, seventy feet 
from the ground to the bell, and thence went off in a taper 
spire of wood, likewise seventy feet higher, to the weather¬ 
cock. Near the bell was fixed an iron hammer to strike 
the hours; and from the tail of the hammer, a wire went 
down through a small gimblet hole in the floor that the bell 
stood upon, and through a second floor in like manner; then 
horizontally under the plaistered ceiling of that floor to a 
plaistered wall, then down that wall to a clock which stood 
about twenty feet below the bell. 

Now come, gentlemen, you who have no faith in lightning 
rods—you who think it blasphemy to talk of warding off 
God Almighty’s lightning! —as if it were not just as 
pleasing to him to see you warding off the lightning by steel 
rods, as warding off the ague and fever by Jesuit’s bark; 
come, I say, and see how very visibly he approbates our 
works of wisdom, which make us like himself. You have 
read the structure of this steeple—the top, a seventy feet 
spire without any rod —then a rod that went down zigzag, 
about thirty feet; then a plaistered brick and stone wall 
without any rod, to the ground. A dreadful cloud came 
over the steeple. At the first flash, away went the whole 
of the seventy foot wooden spire, scattered all over the 
church yard in splinters fit to boil the preacher’s tea kettle. 
The lightning then found the iron wire which it instantly 
seized on, quitting all things else for that, and darting along 
with it in so close an embrace, as barely to widen a little 
the gimblet holes through which it passed. It then followed 
the wire in all its meanders, whether perpendicular or hori¬ 
zontal—never turning either to the right or to the left, to 
hurt the building, but passed through it the whole length of 
the wire, which was about thirty feet, as harmlessly as a 
lamb. But soon as its dear chain was ended, it assumed 
the furious lion again; attacking the building with the most 
destructive rage, dashing its foundation stones to a great 
distance, and in other respects damaging it dreadfully. 


176 


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Now what can be more reasonable than doctor Fianklin’s 
remarks on this very remarkable occurrence ? 

“ I. That lightning, in its passage through a building, 
will leave wood, brick, or stone, to pass as tar as it can in 
metal; and not enter those again, till the metal conductor 
ceases. 

“II. The quantity of lightning that passed through this 
steeple must have been very great, by its effects on the lofty 
spire, &c., and yet great as this quantity was, it was con 
ducted by a small wire without the least damage to the 
building as far as the wire extended. 

“ III. Hence it seems probable, that if even such a small 
wire had been extended from the top of the steeple to the 
earth, before the storm, no damage would have been done 
by that stroke of lightning.” 

A fate exactly similar to this attended the great Dutch 
church, of New York, in 1750. As far as the wire was ex 
tended, which was from the top ot the steeple, to within a 
few feet of the earth, the lightning closely accompanied it, 
passing with it through small holes in the floors, without do¬ 
ing the least damage. But the instant it quitted the wire, 
it commenced its ravages on the building. 

The summer of 1760 was dreadfully hot in Pennsylvania; 
and the thunder gusts frequent and terrible. Several ships 
at the wharves were struck and greatly injured. One of 
them in particular, a very large ship, had her mainmast torn 
to pieces, and her captain and three seamen killed. Ot 
houses, both in town and country, many were struck; and 
some of them, as barns with large quantities of hay, and 
warehouses with hemp, were set on fire and destroyed to the 
great detriment and terror, both of the unfortunate sufferers 
and their neighbours. 

These things, though melancholy in themselves, were not 
without their good effects. They served to place in the 
strongest point of view, the admirable efficacy of the newly 
invented lightning rods. For, while buildings destitute of 
them, were often struck, and sometimes with great loss ot 
lives and property, those houses that had them, were hardly 
ever known to be hurt, though the neighbours who saw the 
dismal clouds when they bursted, with such hideous peals 
of thunder and streams of lightning, were sickened with 
horrid apprehension that all was lost. And even the house 
keepers themselves, when recovered from their terrors and 
Paintings, would fly shrieking from chamber to chamber. 


DR. FRANKLIN 


17 ? 


amidst the clouds of sulphur to see who were dead. But 
Dehold, to the delicious wonder of themselves and congratu¬ 
lating friends, all were safe. But still the cry was, certainly 
the house was struck! the house was surely struck! let us ex¬ 
amine the conductors. 

The conductors were resorted to and examined, and be¬ 
hold! the wondrous laws imposed of God on the most pow¬ 
erful ol his creatures! The furious lightnings had fallen on 
the houses in torrents of fire, threatening a wide destruction. 
But the iron rods, faithful to their trust, had arrested the 
impending bolts, and borne them in safety to the ground. 

But it was found that the cataracts of lightning had proved 
too powerful for the rods; in some instances melting them in 
two at their slenderest parts, and in others entirely con¬ 
suming them into smoke. But though these guardian rods 
had perished in their conflict with the rude lightnings, yet 
they had succeeded in parrying the dreadful stroke with 
perfect safety to the buildings and their terrified inhabitants; 
thus impressing all men with joy and thankfulness, that God 
had given such complete victory over one of the most terrible 
of all our natural enemies. 

In short, to use the handsome language of president 
Adams, “ nothing perhaps that ever occurred on earth, could 
have better tended to confer universal celebrity on man, 
than did these lightning rods of doctor Franklin’s. The idea 
was certainly one of the most sublime ever suggested to the 
human imagination. That mortal man should thus be taught 
to disarm the clouds of heaven, and almost snatch from his 
hand 4 the sceptre and the rodP ” 

The ancients would, no doubt, have enrolled among their 
gods, the author of so wonderful an invention. Indeed the 
reputation which Franklin acquired by it, not only in Ame¬ 
rica, but in Europe also, far transcended all conception. 
His lightning rods, or as the French called them, his “para- 
toner res,” erected their heads, not only on the temples of 
God and the palaces of kings, but also on the masts of ships 
and the habitations of ordinary citizens. The sight of them 
everv where reminded the gazing world of the name and 
character of their inventor, who was tnought of by the multi¬ 
tude as some great magician dwelling in the fairy lands of 
North America, and to whom God had given controul over 
the elements of nature. 

And equally wonderful was the change produced by them 
in the state of general comfort. The millions, who had hitherto 


178 


THE LIFE OF 


trembled at the cloud rising in the heat of summer, ccuid 
now look on it with pleasing awe as it rose dark and solemn, 
with all its muttering thunders. And even amidst the min¬ 
gled flash and crash of the earth shaking tornado, the very 
women and children, if they had but Franklin paratonerres 
to their chimnies, would sit perfectly composed, silently 
adoring God for teaching such great salvation to men. 

But the pleasure which doctor Franklin found in these 
plaudits of an honest world was not without an alloy. 
Though the end of his labours had been to do good; yet he 
soon discovered that there were some who sickened at his 
success. Alas! 

“ Among the sons of men, how few are known 
Who dare be just to merit, not their own.” 

Certain invidious scribblers, in London and Paris, began 
to decry his well-earned glory, by pretending that it was all 
due to the Abbe Nollet, to doctor Gilbert, or some other 
wonderful Frenchman or Englishman, as the real father of 
electricity. Franklin took no notice of all this impotent 
malice; nor indeed was it necessary; for soon as it dared to 
present its brazen front in print, it was attacked by the first- 
rate philosophers of Europe, who nobly taking the part of 
Fi •anklin, soon showed, to the general satisfaction, that 
whatever others may have dreamed about the late wonder¬ 
ful discoveries in electricity, they were all due, under God, 
to the great American philosopher, who for these, and many 
other important discoveries, had a good right to share with 
Newton in the following bold compliment. 

“ Nature and nature’s works lay hid in night, 

God said, let Franklin be, and all was light ” 


►e © ®«« — 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A curious demonstration of Dr. Franklin’s philosophy 
of lightning. About thirty-four years after this date, when 
Doctor Franklin, by his opposition to Lord North’s mea¬ 
sures, had become very unpopular, George III. was per 
suaded to pull down the sharp points of that “ hoary 
rebel,” and set up the blunts of an impudent quack, be¬ 
cause, forsooth, he was a loyal subject ! Scarcely were the 
sharps taken down from the palace, to which, during thirty 


OR. FRANKLIN. 


179 


(our years, they had been an excellent safeguard, before a 
dismal cloud rose upon the city, black as midnight, and 
when right over the palace discharged a cataract of electric 
fluid, with horrid glare and thunder, stunning all ears, 
blinding all eyes, and suffocating every sense with the smell 
of sulphur. The famous blunt conductors presented no point 
to catch the bolt, which, dashing at the stately edifice, tore 
away all its gable end, marring the best apartments, and 
killing several of the king’s servants. 

Shortly arrived the packet from New York, with news of 
a far more dreadful thunder-clap which had bursted on poor 
George in America—the capture of his grand Canada army! 
which Lord North had promised him should soon bring the 
rebels to their marrow bones. The next day the following 
pasquinade made its appearance in the newspapers: 

‘ While you, great George, intent to hunt, 

Your sharp Conductors change to blunt, 

The nation’s out of joint; 

Franklin a wiser course pursues, 

And all your thunder fearless views, 

By sticking to the POINT.” 

1 cannot quit this subject without observing, that from Dr 
Franklin’s experiments it appears, that death by lightning, 
must be the easiest of all deaths. 

“In September, 1752,” says he, “six young Germans, 
apparently doubting the truth of the reported force of elec¬ 
tricity, came to me to see,” as they said, “if there was any 
thing in it. Having desired them to stand up side by side, 
I laid one end of my discharging rod on the head of the first; 
this laid his hand on the head of the second, that on the head 
of the third, and so on to the last, who held in his hand the 
chain that was attached to the lightning globe. On being 
asked if they were ready, they answered yes , and boldly 
desired that I would give them a thumper; I then gave them 
a shock; whereat they all dropped down together. When 
they got up, they declared that they had not felt any stroke; 
and wondered how they came to fall. Nor did any of them 
hear the crack, or see the light of it.” 

He tells another story equally curious. “A young wo¬ 
man, afflicted with symptoms of a palsy in the foot, came to 
receive an electrical shock. Heedlessly stooping too near the 
prime conductor, she received a smart stroke in the forehead, 
of which she fell like one perfectly lifeless on the floor. In¬ 
stantly she got up again complaining of nothing, and won* 


180 


THE LIFE OF 


dering much why she fell, for that nothing of the sort had 
ever happened to her before.” 

Nay, he also tells us of himself, that by accident, he 
received a shock which in an instant brought him to the floor, 
without giving him time to see, hear, or feel any thing of the 
matter! Hence he concludes, and I think with good reason, 
that all who dread the idea of pain in dying, would do well 
to pray, if it be God’s will, to die of coelataction , as the an¬ 
cients called it, or a touch from heaven. 

It is worthy of remark, that persons thus knocked down, 
do not stagger , or fall lengthwise , but as if deprived instan 
taneously of strength and firmness, they sink down at once, 
doubled or folded together, or as we say, “ all in a heap.” 

Dr. Franklin seldom suffered any thing to escape him. 
From the power of lightning to dissolve the hardest metals, 
he caught an idea favourable to cooking and matrimony. 
First, an old dunghill cock killed in the morning by a shock 
from his electrical jar, by dinner was become so tender that 
both the doctor and several of his literary friends pronounced 
it equal to a young pheasant. Second, an old bachelor 
thought to be far gone in a consumption, had hardly received 
more than a couple of dozen smart shocks of electricity, 
before he turned into courting with great spirit, and present¬ 
ly got himself a wife. 

If electrical jars could be had cheap, this discovery con¬ 
cerning the old dunghill cock might prove a good hint to those 
gentlemen in the tavern-keeping line, who are so very frugal 
that they will not keep up a coop full of young poultry, fat 
and fine, and always ready for the traveller, but prefer giving 
him the pain, long after his arrival at their door, to hear the 
lean tenants ot the dunghill flying and squalling from the 
pursuit of the barking dogs and noisy servants. 

And as to the experiment on the other kind of old capon, 
the grunting wheazing old bachelor, it clearly points to the 
wish often expressed by Dr. Franklin, viz. “ that the legisla¬ 
ture would order an electrical machine, large enough to kill a 
turkey cock at least, to he placed t in every parish , at the cost 
and for the benefit of all the old bachelors of the same . 55 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


18i 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

1 have been told that Dr. Franklin on his death bed often 
returned thanks to God for having so kindly cast his lot of 
life in the very time when of all others he would have chosen 
to live for the great purposes of usefulness and pleasure. 
And so indeed it appears; for scarcely had he matured, as 
above, his most useful discoveries in electricity, before a new 
door was opened to him for another noble charity to his country 
Some there are who for a good work begun by themselves 
will do every thing; but for the same work begun by others 
will do nothing; and yet will call themselves Christians. 
Franklin lived to set the example of a better Christianity. 
A notable instance of this occurred about this time, 1754. 

A Dr. Thomas Bond, having noticed a number of families 
so extremely poor, as to be in imminent danger not only of 
suffering grievously in case of sickness, but of actually pe¬ 
rishing for want of wholesome food and medicine, generously 
undertook, by subscription, to build a hospital for these suf¬ 
ferers. Meeting with but little encouragement, and knowing 
Dr. Franklin’s influence and public spirit, he applied to him 
for assistance. Perfectly indifferent who got the praise, 
provided he but shared the pleasure of founding so god-like 
an institution, Franklin entered very heartily into the plan 
with Dr. Bond, and inserted in his newspaper, a series of es¬ 
says, 44 on the great duty of charity to the sick and miserable ,” 
which made such an impression on the public mind, that 
the noble sum of twelve thousand dollars was quickly sub¬ 
scribed. With this the trustees bought a lot, and finished one 
wing of their hospital, for immediate use. On the foundation 
stone is to be seen the following inscription by Dr. Franklin* 

44 In the year of Christ MDCCLV, 

George the Second, happily reigning , 

'For he sought the HAPPINESS OF HIS PEOPLE,) 
Philadelphia flourishing , 

(For its inhabitants were public spirited ,) 

This Building 

By the bounty of the Government 
And of many private persons 
Was piously founded 
For the relief of the sick and miserable . 

MAY THE GOD OF MERCIES BLESS THE 
UNDERTAKING!” 

16 


182 


THE LIFE OF 


Never did benevolence put up an ejaculation more fer¬ 
vent. And never was one more signally answered. Indeed 
the blessings of heaven have been so signally showered on this 
excellent charity, that it now forms one of brightest orna¬ 
ments of the fairest city in America, presenting to the 
delighted eye of humanity a noble front, of elevation and 
extent far beyond that of Solomon’s temple, even a royal 
range of buildings, two and three stories high, two hundred 
and seventy-eight feet long, and forty wide, containing about 
one hundred and thirty spacious well-aired rooms, for the 
accommodation of the sick, wounded, and lunatic of every 
description; affectionately waited on by skilful physicians 
and active nurses; comforted by refreshing baths both hot 
and cold; and abundantly supplied with the best loaf bread, 
nice vegetables, fresh meats, soups, wines and medicines. 

And while other parts of the city have been very sickly; 
and especially in the summer of 1793, when no fewer than 
4000 persons perished of the yellow fever, Lot a single case 
of disease occurred in this hospital. The destroying angel 
as he passed along, smelt the odour of that precious grace 
(charity) which embalmed the building, and let fall his 
avenging sword. 

Gentlemen travellers falling sick in Philadelphia, will 
please be informed of this famous hospital, that if they wish 
excellent physicians, experienced nurses, pleasant chambers, 
pure air, and sweet retirement, they may here have all those 
of the first quality at half price; and even that a donation 
to the Institution. 




CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Dr. Franklin, about this time, 1756, commenced his po 
litical career. 

When we see some peerless Childers , (whose figure almost 
proves the divinity of matter, and who in matchless speed 
leaves the stormy winds behind him,) bending under the 
weight of a miller’s bag, or tugging at the hames of some 
drunken carman, how can we otherwise than mourn such a 
prostitution of excellences; so how can we but mourn, when 
we see such a man as Franklin, born for those divine arts 
* v hich widen our empire over nature, and multiply a thou- 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


183 


sand-fold the comforts of life, wasting his precious time in 
combatting the unreasonable claims of selfish and wicked 
man? 

This, for a portion of his eventful life, was the sad destiny 
of Dr. Franklin. Scarcely had he passed his first forty years 
in his favourite philosophical labours, equally useful to the 
world, and delightful to himself, when he was at once stop¬ 
ped short—stopped by the voice of public gratitude. The 
wise and virtuous people of Pennsylvania, chiefly quakers, 
who estimate a man, not by the fineness of his coat, but the 
usefulness of his life, were not to overlook such a man as 
Franklin. His astonishing industry, and his many valuable 
inventions, had long made him the favourite theme of their 
talk. But it was not for approbation so general and hearty, 
to be satisfied with mere talk. 

TVhat shall be done for the man whom the people delighleth 
to honour ? was the question in every circle. God , they said , 
has lighted up this candle for our use , it must not be hid under 
a bushel. Let it be placed on the great candlestick of the na¬ 
tion , the legislature. So strong, indeed, was the public feel¬ 
ing in his favour, that from several of the wards, deputations' 
were appointed to wait upon him, to beg he would serve the 
city as their representative in the house of burgesses. 

The sight of his name in the papers, as a candidate at tne 
next election, to serve the city of Philadelphia, gave a gene¬ 
ral joy. Among his opponents were several of the weal¬ 
thiest citizens, who had long served as representatives, and 
whose numerous friends could not bear the idea of their being 
turned out. Great exertions were made on both sides; and 
the polls were uncommonly crowded. But when the con¬ 
test came to issue, it was found that the Philadelphia printer, 
and son of the good old psalm-singing Boston tallow-chan¬ 
dler, carried the day with great ease. 

O ye simple ones , how long will you love simplicity! you, I 
mean, who can once a year look sweetly on your constitu¬ 
ents, and once a year invite them to barbacues, and make 
them drunk with whiskey, thus ignobly begging those 
votes which you feel you have not the sense to deserve, 0 
learn from this your great countryman, wherein consists the 
true art of electioneering; not in ignoble tricks like these, 
to court the little, but in high qualifications, like Dr. Frank¬ 
lin’s, to be courted by the great. 

The exalted expectations formed of him by the public 
were not disappointed. Heartily a lover of man and the 


184 


THE LIFE OF 


friend of equal rights, lie had scarcely taken his seat in the 
legislature before he had to turn the torrent of his honest 
indignation against the proprietaries and their creatures the 
Governors. 

The reader will please here be reminded that in the year 
1680, that great good man, William Penn, a quaker, was 
paid off* a large claim against Charles II. of England, by a 
grant of lands in North America. To make the best of a 
bad bargain, honest William gathered together a caravan of 
his poor persecuted brethren, and taking ship came over to 
North America. 

The good angel that guided the steps of pious Jacob as 
he sojourned from Padan-aram to the land Uz, seeking a 
rest, guided Penn and his gentle followers to the mouth of 
the Delaware bay. He followed the stately flood in all its 
wanderings among the green marshes and forests of the new 
found world, until he reached the pleasant spot where now 
Philadelphia stands. The majestic grove that shaded the 
extended level on the western bank, bordered on the back 
by the beautiful serpentine river called by the natives, the 
Schuylkill, struck his eye as a fine site for his future city. 

Abhorring the idea of killing his fellow men, the poor na¬ 
tives, and taking away their lands, he sent around among 
them the Calumet, or pipe of peace , inviting them to “ a 
friendly talk.” Painted in red ochre, and decked in all 
the savage pomp of wild skins and feathers, the kings of the 
soil with all their simple tribes assembled themselves to¬ 
gether. The meeting was in the summer of 1681, under the 
trees near the margin of the great river. The scene was 
lovely to the eye of humanity. The red and white men 
from different continents were seen to meet, not as enemies 
for mutual slaughter, but as brothers for loving commerce. 
The shores were covered with British merchandize. The 
eyes of the simple children of nature sparkled on those 
rich wares, the like of which they had never seen before. 

Penn gave them every thing. He gave them precious 
axes to master the forests; and still more magic guns to 
master the wolves and panthers He gave them warm 
clothes for defence against the cold, and plough-shares and 
noes for plentiful harvests. In return they gave him that 
large tract of land in their country, which, in honour of this 
good man, has been called Pennsylvania. Instantly the 
aged forests began to resound with the strokes of axes and 
the crash of falling trees. And the corner stone was laid of 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


185 


the new city, which, with great propriety, was named of 
Penn, Philadelphia, or the city of brotherly love. 

Having thus laid the foundation of this colony in justice 
to the poor natives, and in generosity to his own followers 
in the great cheapness of his lands, in perfect liberty of 
conscience, and in the exceeding moderation of his govern ¬ 
ment, this wise statesman then looked to God for his bless¬ 
ings. Nor did he look in vain. The fame of “Penn Co¬ 
lony,” resounded throughout Great Britain. An immense 
emigration were cpiickly on their way to Pennsylvania. 
The young city grew apace, and farms and fair buildings in 
the country, spread in every direction with a rapidity une¬ 
qualled in history. 

But alas! when honest William fell asleep, there rose 
after him a race of heirs “ who knew not Joseph who not 
content, like him , with modest drab, and simple dinners, and 
aspiring to the true happiness of imitating God in godlike 
loves and deeds, basely prostituted their hearts to carnal 
lusts and pride. 

The worship of these gods, though contemptible, is costly; 
and to these wet-quaker successors of the good William 
Penn, nothing promised such a swelling revenue as a bold 
rise in the price of their lands. And in this pitiful kind of 
management they soon gave the Pennsylvanians to under¬ 
stand that like Rehoboam of old, « their little fingers were 
heavier than their father's loins." I have not been able to 
procure any thing like certainty as to the sum that good 
William Penn gave to the natives for the vast tract of land 
he purchased of them. But that he hardly gave at the rate ol 
a hatchet for what is now a noble farm, may be very fairly 
inferred In 1754, which was seventy years later than the 
first purchase, the house of Penn bought of the Indians seven 
millions of acres lying within the royal grant. And what 
do you suppose they gave for it? what do you suppose they 
gave for seven millions of acres of rich, heavy timbered 
Pennsylvania land? why not quite two thousand dollars! 
not three cents the hundred acres! And what do you sup¬ 
pose they immediately asked for it ? why fifteen pounds ten 
shillings! near fifty thousand cents per hundred acres! And 
yet with such a bank of millions in hand they were not 
willing to bear their part of the taxes for public good!! 

Like the starched Pharisees of old, they could throw 
neavy weights on other men’s shoulders, but not suffer a fiy 
to light on theirs They could smile when they saw the 

16 * 


186 


THE LIFE OF 


officer going lound with his ink horn and pen, noting down 
the poor man’s paddock, but if he but looked at their 
princely manors and parks they would make the whole co¬ 
lony ring with it. 

Grown beyond calculation rich by the sales and rents of 
their lands in America, they scorned the country of their 
illustrious predecessor, and went over to London, where 
they mimicked the pride and pageantry of princes. 

Thinking they did the obscure Pennsylvanians honour 
enough to govern them by proxy . they washed their hands 
of the poor colony government, and sent them over depu¬ 
ties. These hirelings, to augment their salaries, soon com¬ 
menced a course of oppressions on the people, whom they 
treated with great insolence. 

It were too great an honour to those wretches to set the 
people of the present day to reading their insolent messages 
to the legislature. They were always, however, very pro¬ 
perly chastised by Dr. Franklin; sometimes in the columns 
of his own popular newspaper, and sometimes in the assem¬ 
bly. Not, indeed, by long and eloquent orations, for which 
he either had no talent, or declined it, preferring the pithy 
and pungent anecdote or story , which was always so admi¬ 
rably appropriate, and withal so keen in wit and truth, that 
like a flash from his own lightning rods, it never failed to 
demolish the fairest fabric of sophistry, and cause even its 
greatest admirers to blush that they had been so fascinated 
by its false glare. 

In 1756, he was appointed deputy post-master general foi 
the British colonies. It is asserted that in his hands, the 
post-office in America yielded annually thrice as much as 
did that of Ireland. An extraordinary proof of our passion 
for reading and writing beyond the Irish. Perhaps it was 
owing to this that we saved our liberties, while they lost theirs.. 

Several of the middle colonies suffering much at this time 
from Indian depredations on their frontiers, it was agreed 
among them to send commissioners to Albany to devise 
means for mutual defence. Dr. Franklin, commissioner on 
the part of Pennsylvania, had the honour to draw up a plan, 
which was thought excellent. Knowing the colonists to be 
the best marksmen in the world, and supposing it infinitely 
safer that the defence of their own firesides should be en¬ 
trusted to them than to British hirelings, lie had with his 
usual sagacity recommended that muskets and powdei 
should be put into their hands. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


187 


Rut when nis plan was presented to the king and coun- 
nr.:. for ratification, it was indignantly rejected. It was 
thought by some that hardly could Satan and his black jani- 
saries have been more seriously offended, had a cargo of 
Bibles and hymn books been recommended f or their pande¬ 
monium. 

The truth is, the British ministry had for a long time de¬ 
pressed the unfortunate Americans into mere hewers oj 
wood and drawers of water , by making them bring all their 
rich produce of tobaccos, furs, &c. to English ports, and 
there give them the meanest prices; sometimes a penny, and 
even half a penny a pound for their brightest tobacco, which 
they would the next hour sell to the Dutch merchants for 
two shillings a pound. To preserve such a trade as this, as 
lord Howe ingenuously confessed, from going into any other 
channel, was a grand object to the ministry. But this they 
could not long count on, if the Americans were furnished 
with muskets, cannon, and powder. They therefore, very 
prudently, determined to leave Dr. Franklin’s excedent 
marksmen out of the question, and confide to their own 
creatures the protection of a country whose trade could so 
well repay them for it. 

But their folly in preferring such troops was soon made 
evident, as Franklin had predicted. In the spring of 1755, 
two thousand veterans, the elite of the British military, 
were sent over to drive the French from the Ohio. One half / 
that number of Virginia riflemen would have done the busi¬ 
ness completely. But such was the ministerial jealousy of 
the American riflemen, and so great their dread to embody 
and arm that kind of troops, that they permitted no more 
than three companies to join the army. And even these 
were so ludicrously scrimped up by governor Dinwiddie, 
in jackets scarcely reaching to their waists, that they be¬ 
came a mere laughing stock of the British army, who nevei 
called them by any other name than the 44 Virginia short 
rumps.” Many believed that this was done purposely, that 
by being thus constantly laughed at, they might be cowed 
thereby, and be led to think meanly of themselves, as quite 
an inferior sort of beings to the mighty English. But 
blessed be God whose providence always takes part with 
the oppressed. A few short weeks only elapsed when this 
motley army was led, by an incautious commander, into a 
fatal ambuscade of the French and Indians—general Brad- 
dock, at the head of his 2000 British veterans, and young 


188 


THE LIFE OF 


Geoige Washington at the head of his two hundred * 4 Vir¬ 
ginia short rumps.” Then was displayed the soundness ot 
Dr. Franklin’s judgment, in the wide difference, as to self' 
possession and hard fighting , between these two kind of 
troops. 

The conceited Englishmen behaved no better than wild 
turkies, while the despised 64 Virginia short rumps ” fought 
like lions, and had the glory of saving the wreck of the 
British army. 

This sad defeat had like to have ruined doctor Franklin, 
by whose credit with the Pennsylvanians, colonel Dunbar 
of the rear guard of his army, had been furnished with 
fifty wagons, which were all burnt on the retreat. His es¬ 
cape from this danger was owing to the generosity of gover¬ 
nor Shirley, who learning that Franklin had incurred this 
debt on account of the British government, undertook to 
discharge it. 

Seeing no end to the vexation and expense brought on 
the colony by those selfish beings, the proprietaries, the 
assembly came at length, to the resolution to petition the 
king to abolish the proprietary government, and take the 
colony under his own care. Doctor Franklin was appointed 
to the honour of presenting this petition to his majesty 
George II. and sailed for England, June, 1 757. 

Learning at last that by obstinately contending for too 
much , they might possibly lose a//, the proprietaries signi¬ 
fied to doctor Franklin a willingness that their land should 
be taxed. 

After the completion of this important business, Franklin 
remained at the court of Great Britain as agent for the pro¬ 
vince of Pennsylvania. The extensive knowledge which he 
possessed of the situation of the colonies and the regard which 
lie always manifested for their interests, occasioned his ap¬ 
pointment to the same office by the colonies of Massachusetts, 
Maryland and Georgia. 

He had now an opportunity of visiting those illustrious 
Englishmen, whom his useful writings and discoveries had 
strongly bound to him, though they had never seen his face. 
The high opinion which they had formed of him at a dis¬ 
tance, was greatly increased by a personal acquaintance. 

Sucli vastness of mind with such sweetness of spirit and 
simplicity of manners, formed a spectacle as rare as it was 
lovely. And as a proof that superior sense and superior 
benevolence will always prevail against prejudice, he was 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


189 


*ow courted by those learned societies who formerly affect¬ 
ed to deride his discoveries in philosophy and electricity. 
The Royal Society of London, which had at first refused his 
performances admission into its transactions, now deemed if 
an honour to class him among its fellows. The universities 
of St. Andrews, of Edinburgh, and Oxford, conferred on 
him the degree of doctor of laws; and the most distinguished 
philosophers of Europe sought his correspondence. In read 
ing his letters to those great men, we are at a loss which 
most to admire, the majesty of his sense, or the simplicity 
of his style. While in England, which was from July. 
1757, to July, ’62, he suggested to the British ministry the 
duty of dispossessing the French of that great country on 
the north of our colonies called Canada. To this end, he 
published his famous Canada pamphlet , exhibiting in strong 
colours the many mischiefs and murders committed on his 
countrymen, even in times of peace, by the Indians in French 
pay. This little tract served to rouse the British nation to 
the pitch he desired. 

An army of English regulars and New-England militia 
were sent under the command of general Wolfe, who pre¬ 
sently succeeded in driving the French out of a fine country, 
of which, by their cruelties, they had rendered themselves 
utterly unworthy. 

About this time the celebrated doctor Cullen, of Scotland, 
made some curious discoveries in the art of producing cold 
by evaporation. Hoping that the genius of Franklin might 
throw some lights on this dawning science, a friend of doc¬ 
tor Cullen’s wrote a statement of the facts to Franklin. 
The American philosopher, though now immersed in politi¬ 
cal pursuits, took a little leisure to repeat doctor Cullen’s 
experiments on cold, which he so improved as easily to pro¬ 
duce ice in the dog days. But it was one of those dis¬ 
coveries, which, as he says, he never valued , because it ivas 
too expensive to be of general utility. 

About the autumn of 1761, he rendered himself prodi¬ 
giously popular among the ladies in London, by completing 
that sweet toned little instrument of music, the Harmonica. 

I have been told that his fame at court on this account, 
so awakened the recollection of George III. that he caused 
it to be signified to Dr. Franklin, that he felt a disposition 
to 44 do something for him.” Our philosopher replied, that 
he wanted nothing for himself, bub—-that, he had a son in 
America. The king took the hint, and immediately made 


190 


THE LIFE OF 


out a commission of “ Governor of his colony of New Jersey J 
for his beloved subject , Temple Franklin , Esq.” On such 
small things are the fortunes of men sometimes founded! 

Doctor Franklin was now become so great a favourite 
that the people of all classes seemed to take a pride in talk¬ 
ing of him, and his sayings, insomuch that not a word ol the 
brilliant sort could fall from his lips but it was sure to be 
caught up instantly and re-echoed through every circle, from 
proud St. James to humble St. Giles. The following im¬ 
promptu made a great noise in London about this time. 

One evening in a large party at his friend Vaughan’s he 
was, laughingly, challenged by a very beautiful girl, a Miss 
Gun, to make her a couplet of verses extempore. Well, 
madam, replied he, with great gallantry, since every body is 
offering a tribute to your graces, let me tender the following: 

“ Cupid now to ensure his fun, 

Quits his bow and takes to gun.” 

This handsome play on her name instantly suffused the 
cheeks of Miss Gun with celestial roses, making her look 
much more like an angel than before. 

I mention this merely to show what an extraordinary 
mind that man must have possessed, who with such equal 
ease, could play the Newton or the Chesterfield , and charm 
alike the lightnings and the ladies. 

In the summer of 1762, he took leave of nis friends in 
England to return to his native country. On his voyage he 
discovered in oil or grease thrown on the water, a property, 
which few people ever dreamt of. When we learn of gold 
that it may by beating, be expanded into a leaf of such in¬ 
credible fineness, that a guinea might in that way be made 
to cover Solomon’s temple, or deck Noah’s ark, we are 
filled with wonder of such a metal. Doctor Franklin tells 
us of equal wonders in oil. He informs us, that a wine 
glass full of pure oil poured on a mill pond, will presently 
spread over it, with a film inconceivably thinner than a cob¬ 
web, and so adhesive that the winds shall not excite it to 
mad-caps and breakers. Hence, he infers, that oil might be 
made a mean of saving ships during a violent storm at sea. 

In this voyage he made also another discovery, which 
ought to be known to all going by sea, viz. that if persons 
perishing of thirst on a voyage, would but bathe half a 
dozen times a day in the seawater, which they easily might, 
by using their empty water casks as bathing tubs, they 
would obtain great relief from their thirst, and live several 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


191 


days longer; thence enjoying a better chance for their lives, 
by getting into port, or falling in with some friendly sail. 

On his arrival in Philadelphia doctor Franklin was wel¬ 
comed with marks of the most flattering respect by the citi¬ 
zens universally—handsome addresses and dinners were 
given him by literary societies and clubs—and the assembly, 
in the most public manner voted him their thanks for “ the 
great honour and services he had rendered the country in 
general during his residence in England; and especially to 
the province of Pennsylvania.” And they accompanied 
their thanks with a present of five thousand pounds. 

Ye blind parents who can think hard of laying out a few 
dollars for books and education of your children, 0 think of 
this, and learn a course of conduct more to your own credit 
and to their temporal and eternal welfare. 

In a few weeks after his return to Philadelphia there oc¬ 
curred in that neighbourhood an affair that serves to show 
the popularity of doctor Franklin in a very strong light. 

In consequence of a number of murders committed on the 
frontiers by some vilianous Indians, about a hundred and 
twenty young men of Dauphin county, Christians in name 
but perfect savages in nature, bound themselves by a horrid 
oath to exterminate a little tribe of about twenty tame In 
dians, who lived very harmlessly among the whites in York 
county. Mounted on horses, and with rifles and tomahawks 
in their hands, they set oft' very deliberately on this hellish 
errand towards the settlements of the poor Indians. The 
old men, women, and children, in the cabins, soon fell wel¬ 
tering in their blood. The rest, who were at work, getting 
notice, fled to Lancaster, and were lodged in the jail as in a 
place of security. The blood thirsty whites broke open the jail 
and butchered every soul. All smeared with innocent blood, 
and furious as demons, they then pushed off for Philadel¬ 
phia, to massacre the feeble remains of a friendly tribe who 
had fled into that city for protection. The governor issued 
his proclamation. The rioters paid no regard to it, but 
moved on rapidly, well armed, and determined to cut their 
way to the hated Indians over the bodies of all wiio should 
oppose them. They are now on this side of Germantown, 
only one hour’s march from Philadelphia. The inhabitants 
are all in terror. The governor quits his palace, and for 
safety flies to the house of doctor Franklin. He, calm as he 
was wont to be amidst the lightnings as they darted around 
him on his rods, went out to meet the rioters. We sincere!* 


192 


THE LIFE OF 


regiet that we cannot give the speech which he made on this 
memorable occasion. It must have been impressive in a 
most extraordinary degree; for on hearing it they instantly 
abandoned their hellish design and returned peaceably to 
their homes’ 




CHAPTER XXXIX 

Had the fatal sisters, even now, put forth their shears 
and clipped his thread, yet would not the friend of man 
66 have fallen without his fame.” Admiring posterity would 
still have written on his tomb, 

Here lies the GREAT FRANKLIN. 

But though great now, he is destined to be much greatei 
still. A crisis is approaching that is to call forth all his 
talents, and to convince even the most unthinking, that in 
die dark day of trouble the 44 wise shall shine forth like the 
firmament.” By the crisis here mentioned, I mean the 
events leading to the American revolution. 

The British cabinet, as if entire strangers to that divine 
philosophy which commands its disciples to be 44 no respecters 
of persons,” allowed themselves in the most fatal policy of 
sparing the British subjects in England at the expense of 
the British subjects in America. After having drained much 
money from them in a variety of unconstitutional ways, they 
came at length to the resolution of taxing the colonies with¬ 
out their consent. 

This dark design was hinted in 1754, by the minister, to 
governor Shirley, of the Massachusetts-Bay colony. The 
governor, well knowing his extraordinary penetration and 
judgment, broke this ministerial plan to Dr. Franklin; re¬ 
questing his opinion of it. Dr. Franklin answered this 
question of the governor, by urging an 44 immediate anion 
of the colonies with great Britain, by allowing them repre¬ 
sentatives in parliament,” as the only thing that could pre¬ 
vent those ceaseless encroachments on the one side, and 
those bitter animosities on the other, which, he feared, would 
one day prove the ruin of both countries. As to the minis¬ 
terial plan of taxing the colonies by act of parliament, where 
they have no representation, he assured the governor that it 
would prove utterly abominable. 44 His majesty, sir,” said 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


193 


he to the governor, “has no subjects in all his wide do¬ 
minions, who more heartily love him than do his American 
subjects. Nor do there exist on earth, the Englishmen who 
hold more dear the glory of old England than they do. 
But the same spirit ot their gallant forefathers, which makes 
them ready to lay down their lives and fortunes, in a con¬ 
stitutional way, for their king and country, will for ever 
secure them from being slaves. We exult, sir, in the recol¬ 
lection, that of all the governments on earth, that of Great 
Britain has long been the freest; and that more blood has 
been shed for freedom’s sake in England in one week, than 
on the whole continent for fifty years. Now, on the bright 
face of that government, the first and fairest feature is this 
that no king can touch a penny belonging to the poorest sub 
ject, without his own consent, by his representative in par¬ 
liament. For, if, say they, 4 a king can at pleasure take out 
money , he can take every thing else; since with that he can 
easily hire soldiers to rob , and then murder us if we but 
open our lips against lam. ’ As Americans glory in being 
Englishmen on the western side of the Atlantic, they very 
naturally claim the common right of Englishmen, not to-be 
taxed without their own consent, by their representatives in 
parliament. But the British ministry, though they obsti¬ 
nately refuse to the Americans the sacred rights of repre¬ 
sentation, yet as wickedly insist on the right of taxation ; 
and accordingly have brought into parliament the famous 
stamp act bill , whereby no business that requires a record on 
paper, as deeds, bonds , wills , marriages , fyc. can be legally 
done but on paper that has received the royal stamp. Now, 
sir, you well know that the same minister who proposes this 
most iniquitous and unconstitutional act, would not dare 
propose to any the most drunken tavern-keeper in England, 
a farthing tax on a pot of his ale without the consent of his 
representative in parliament; and yet, without being allowed 
a hearing in parliament, three millions of free-born Ameri¬ 
cans, sons of Englishmen, are to be taxed at the pleasure of 
a distant minister! Not, honoured sir, that the Americans 
care a fig for the pence imposed on this bit of stamp paper, 
but for the principle. For they well know that if parlia¬ 
ment claim a right to take from us a penny in the pound, 
there is no line drawn to bound that right; and what shall 
hinder their calling whenever they please for the other 
nineteen shillings and eleven pence? And besides, sir, 
where is the necessity for this most degrading measure ? 

17 


194 


THE LIFE OF 


Have not the Americans ever showh themselves the warmest 
friends of their king and country? Have they not, in all 
cases of danger, most readily voted both their men and mo 
ney to the full extent of their means, and sometimes fai 
beyond ? 

44 And in addition to all this, are they not daily paying 
large monies in secret taxes to Great Britain ? 

“I. We are not permitted to trade with foreign nations'. 
All the difference in the price of what we could buy cheaper 
from them, but must buy dearer from Britain, is a clear tax 
to Britain. 

44 II. We are obliged to carry our produce to Britain! 
All that it sells for less there than it would in any other 
market, is a clear tax to Britain. 

“ III. All the manufactures that we could make, but 
are forbidden and must buy of British merchants, is a clear 
tax to Britain. 

44 And what freeborn Englishman can, without indignation, 
think of being so daringly defrauded of his birthright , that 
if he wants a pipe of good wine, he cannot go to the island 
of Madeira and get it on easy exchange for his bread stuff’, 
and return at once to his home and business; but must go a 
thousand miles farther from his family, even to Great Bri¬ 
tain, and there run the gauntlet, through so many ruinous 
charges, as to bring his wine up to almost double what it 
ought to have cost? And all this most flagrant injustice 
done to the whole people of the colonies, just to enrich half 
ft dozen British merchants engaged in the Portugal wine trade! 

44 A similar outrage on another of the dearest rights of 
Englishmen, i. e. 4 to make the most that they honestly can of 
their property is committed on the British subjects in 
America, for the sake of favouring a few hatters and nail 
makers in England. No country on the globe, furnishes 
better iron or better beaver than does North America. But the 
Americans must not make a hob-nail or a felt hat for them¬ 
selves. No; they must send all their iron and fur to 
England for the hatters and nail makers there; who may 
give them their own price for the raw materials, and ask 
their own price for the manufactures. 

44 All that a wise government wishes, is, that the people 
should be numerous and wealthy enough to fight the battles 
of their country, and to pay the taxes. But they care not so 
much whether the fighting be done by John or Thomas, or 
the tax paid by William or Charles. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


195 


“ What imports it to the government, whether a mer¬ 
chant, a smith, or a hatter, grows rich in Old England or 
New England? And if, through increase of the people, 
two smiths are wanted for one employed before, why may 
not the new smith be allowed to live and thrive in the new 
country, as well as the old in the old? In short, why should 
the countenance of a state be partially afforded to its people, 
unless it be most in favour of those who have most merit?” 

The whig papers in London soon got this letter, and laid 
it before the public. 

Among a high-minded people like the British, who pride 
themselves in their love of liberty and their perfect scorn of 
fold play , such sentiments could not be read without the 
liveliest emotions. And though some, the ministerial junto 
for example, with the merchants and manufacturers, did not 
ike such plain truths, yet the nation in general gave him 
great credit both for his singular honesty and abilities; and the 
name of Dr. Franklin became very dear to thousands of 
the most enlightened and virtuous patriots of Britain. 

But the pleasure of admiration was dashed with fear, that 
the minister would suffer no good to be done to the nation 
by all this divine counsel, merely because the giver was not 
an Englishman. 

The lights, how r ever, which Dr. Franklin had thrown on 
this great subject, were pressed upon the minister with such 
courage by numbers of honest English writers, that he pru¬ 
dently delayed ordering the collection of the tax until he 
could get further information. It was not long before an 
opportunity was off ered him to obtain this information in a way 
highly complimentary to Dr. Franklin, i. e. by summoning 
him, then in London as colony agent from Pennsylvania, 
February 2, 1766, to appear before the Bar of the British 
House of Commons , to answer certain questions , fyc. 

The next day, accompanied by Mr. Strahan, afterwards 
member of parliament, with several illustrious Englishmen, 
his warm friends, he went to the house. The concourse was 
immense. To see Dr. Franklin —the American, whose phi¬ 
losophical discoveries and political writings had filled the 
world with his name, excited universal curiosity. The gal¬ 
leries were filled with ladies of the first distinction, and 
every seat below was occupied by the members from the 
house of lords. At ten o’clock he appeared at the bar be¬ 
fore the eager waiting crowd. The profoundest silence en¬ 
dued. All eyes were fixed on him; and, from their deep 


I f j6 


THE LIFE OF 


regard, it appeared, that though they beheld no stars noi 
garters glittering on his breast, no burning velvets nor 
flaming diamonds adorning his person, yet they were not 
disappointed. They beheld a spectacle still more inter¬ 
esting and novel.—The spectacle of a man whose simple 
dress evinced that he asked no aid of the tailor and silk¬ 
worm to recommend him, but stood solely on the majesty 
of his mind. The hour for examination being come, and 
the attendant officer beckoning him thereto, he arose— 
“And in his rising seemed a pillar of state—deep on his 
brow engraven deliberation sat and public care. His looks 
drew audience and attention still as night, or summer’s 
noontide air.” 

Who can paint the looks of the minister, as with darkly 
scowling eye-balls, he beheld this terror of aristocracy! or 
who can paint the noble lordlings, as lost in equal stare, 
they gazed and gazed at the wondrous American, forgetting 
the while, “ to quiz,” as they were wont, i *his homespun 
coat and simple shoe-strings. ” 

But never did the mind-illumined looks of man shine 
more divinely bright than did those, that day, of the gene¬ 
rous Barry, the godlike Chatham, and the high-minded 
Dunning, when they beheld the noble form of Franklin. 
Though born in North America, he shines before their eyes 
as a true born son of Britain—the luminous and brave inter¬ 
preter of her sacred constitution, and the wise politician 
who seeks to exalt her glory, lasting as the skies, on the broad 
base of impartial justice to all her children. With eyes 
sparkling with esteem unutterable, they hail him as a bro¬ 
ther; and breathe the ardent wish that in the impending ex¬ 
amination he may succeed in diverting the minister from 
that unconstitutional course which may involve the ruin 
both of England and America. 

The moment for trial being come, and the minister giving 
the signal to begin, the speaker thus commenced:— 

Q. What is your name and place of abode P 
A. Franklin, of Philadelphia. 

Here followed nearly three hundred questions and ansivers y 
which were once read with exceeding interest by men, wo¬ 
men, and children in America. But as they turn altogether 
on that great quarrel which the British ministry formerly 
excited in this country; and which God, to his endless glory, 
was pleased to put asleep in our favour near half a century 
ago, then let all these questions and answers lie asleep with 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


197 


it. However, it is but justice to Dr. Franklin to observe, 
that when we consider these questions, what a wide range 
they take both of the British and American relations and in¬ 
terests —together with the luminous , prompt, and decisive 
manner in which they were solved, we are lost in astonish¬ 
ment at the extent of his information and the powers of his 
mind, and are almost tempted to believe that the answers , 
and not the questions must have been studied with the nicest 
discrimination of circumstances. 

Charles Fox, an honest Englishman, and an excellent judge 
in these matters, being asked his opinion of Dr. Franklin 
and the ministers in the late examination, replied, in his 
strong way, 44 Dwarfs , sir, mere dwarfs in the hand of a 
giant 

Edmund Burke used to say, that this examination of Dr. 
Franklin before the ministers, always put him in mind of a 
44 Master examined before a parcel of school-boys .” 

But though his abilities on this occasion excited the admi¬ 
ration of generous enemies, while his more partial friends 
set no bounds to their praise, yet it would appear from the 
following that all afforded him but little pleasure. In a 
letter to a friend in Philadelphia, he has these remarkable 
words: 44 You have, no doubt, heard that I have been ex¬ 
amined before the House of Commons in this country. 
And it is probable you have also been told that I did not 
entirely disappoint the expectations of my friends, nor be¬ 
tray the cause of truth. This, to be sure, gives me some 
pleasure; and, indeed it is the only thing that does; for, as 
to any good being done by my honest statement to minis¬ 
ters, of what 1 firmly believe to be the best interests of the 
two countries, J tis all, I fear, a lost hope. The people of 
this country are too proud, and too much despise the poor 
Americans, to allow them the common rights of Englishmen , 
that is, a representation in parliament. And until this be 
done, l apprehend that no taxes laid by parliament, will ever 
be collected, but such as must be stained with blood. How 
lamentable it is that two people, sprung frrom the same 
origin, speaking the same language, governed by the same 
laws, and worshipping at the same altar of God, and capa¬ 
ble. by a wise use of the extraordinary means he has now 
put into their hands, of becoming the greatest nation on 
earth, should be stopped short and perhaps reduced to in¬ 
significance by a civil war, kindled by ministers obstinately 
contending lor what they cannot but know to be utterly un 


198 


THE LIFE OF 


constitutional and eternally inadmissible among the free-born 
sons of Englishmen. But 1 suppose the repeal will not 
now be agreed to, from what I think a mistaken opinion, 
that the honour and dignity of government are better sup¬ 
ported by persisting in a wrong measure, once entered 
into, than by rectifying an error as soon as it is discovered.” 

Differently, however, from the apprehensions of Franklin, 
the stamp act was repealed, and even in the course of the 
same year! 

But though so little expected by him, yet was this event 
ascribed, in a great measure, to Dr. Franklin. His famous 
examination, printed in a shilling pamphlet, had been dis¬ 
tributed by myriads throughout Britain and America. In 
America it served to brighten up the old land marks of 
their rights as free-born sons of Englishmen , and to quicken 
their sensibilities to ministerial frauds. In England, it 
served to show the ignorance of the ministers; the impolicy 
of their measures towards America; and the utter inexpe¬ 
diency of the stamp act. The stamp act of course fell to 
the ground. The reader, if a good man, exults, no doubt, 
in this as a most fortunate event, and already hails this re¬ 
moval of strife, as a certain prelude to that return of love 
between the mother country and her colonies, which will 
make them both, glorious and happy. He may hope if, but 
alas! he is never to see the accomplishment of that good 
hope. Death is whetting his scythe; and civil wars and 
slaughters are now just as near at hand as though the stamp 
act had never been repealed. For a pamphlet in some popu¬ 
lar style that should unrip the black budget of ministerial 
injustice and lay naked to view the causes of the coming 
war; that unnatural war that is to sever England and het 
colonies for ever! Brighter than a thousand sermons it 
would illustrate to politicians that 44 the Lord is King ”— 
that the sole end of his government, is to glorify himself in 
the happiness of his creatures —that thereunto he hath 
established his throne in justice —the eternal justice of men 
* 4 doing unto others as they would that others should do unto 
them,” and that none, however great, shall ever violate this 
blessed order with impunity. The British ministry are des¬ 
tined to illustrate this. They are fond of power—to pre 
serve this, they must continue in place—in order thereunto 
they must please the merchants and manufacturers—to ac¬ 
complish this they must favour their trade and lighten their 
taxes. And how is this to be done ? why, by a little pecca- 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


190 

dillo of injustice. They have only to sweat the 44 convicts 
on their Jhnerican plantations ,”—the rascals live a great 
way off, and have no representative in parliament to make a 
noise about it. Accordingly, soon as the Americans were 
supposed to have gotten a little over their fever about the 
stamp act, the minister, lord North, of famous memory, de- 
termined to try them again. However it was but a smad 
affair now—-only a three penny excise on the pound of tea. 

When Dr. Franklin, our ARGUS, then in London, dis¬ 
covered the designs of minister North, he exerted himself 
to point that purblind gentleman to the horrible gulf that 
was yawning at his feet. He wrote letters to several mem¬ 
bers of parliament, his friends: and he published a number 
of luminous pieces in the patriotic gazettes, all admirably 
calculated to rouse the friends of the nation to a sense of the 
impending dangers. 

In three letters to the honourable Mr. W. Strahan, he 
has, in the extract, these remarkable words:— 

44 London , November , 1768. 

44 Dear Sir, 

44 With respect to the present dispute between Great Bri¬ 
tain and the colonies, there is nothing I wish for more than 
to see it amicably settled. But Providence brings about its 
own ends by its own means; and if it intends the downfall 
of a nation, that nation will be so blinded by its pride and 
other passions as not to see its danger, or how its fall may 
be prevented. 

44 The friends of the ministry say that this tax is but a 
trifle ; granted. But who does not see what will be the con¬ 
sequence of submitting to it ? Is it not the more danger¬ 
ous for being a trifle ? Is it not in this way that the devil 
himself most effectually works our ruin ? If he can but 
prevail on a poor thoughtless youth to shake hands with in¬ 
nocence, and to steal , he is abundantly satisfied. To get 
the boy’s hand in, is all he wants. And he would as leave 
the simpleton should begin with stealing a halter as a horse. 
For he well knows that if he but begins with the one he is 
sure to end with the other. Just so the minister, angling for 
American liberty, artfully covers his hook with this delicate 
bait. But the truth is, I have talked and written so much 
and so long on the subject of this unhappy quarrel, that my 
acquaintance are weary of hearing, and the public of read 
ing, any more of it; which begins to make me weary ol 


THE LIFE OF 


200 

talking and writing; especially as I do not find that I have 
gained any point in either country, except that of rendering 
myself suspected, by my impartiality, in England of being 
too much an American , and in America of being too much 
an Englishman. However, as in reply to your polite ques¬ 
tion, 44 what is to he done to settle this alarming dispute 
I have often told you what I think the minister ought to do: 
1 now go a step farther, and tell you what I fear he will do. 

44 1 apprehend he will, ere long, attempt to enforce this 
obnoxious tax, whatever may be the consequences.—I ap 
prebend that in the mean time, the colonies will continue to 
be treated with contempt, and the redress of their grievances 
be neglected—that, this will inflame matters still more in 
that country—that, further rash measures there, may create 
more resentments here—that, their assemblies will be at¬ 
tempted to be dissolved—that, more troops will be sent to 
oppress them—that, to justify these measures of govern¬ 
ment,your newspapers will revile them as miscreants , rogues , 
dastards , and rebels —that, this will alienate the minds of 
the people here from them, and theirs from you—that, pos¬ 
sibly too, some of their warm patriots may be distracted 
enough to de some mad act which will cause them to be 
sent for hither—and that government may be indiscreet 
enough to hang them for it—that mutual provocations will 
thus go on to complete the separation, and instead of that 
cordial affection which so long existed, and which is so ne¬ 
cessary to the glory and happiness of both countries, an im¬ 
placable malice, dishonourable and destructive to both, may 
take place. I hope, however, that this may all prove false 
prophecy , and that you and 1 may live to see as sincere a 
friendship established between our countries, as has so many 
years subsisted between W. Strahan, Esq. and his truly 
affectionate old friend, B. FRANKLIN.” 

But notwithstanding his prayer to the contrary, every 
body recollects how, exactly as Dr. Franklin had predicted, 
the minister continued to blunder and blunder on with his 
face constantly towards war-—how nothing was trumpeted by 
the ministerial party, like the ingratitude and baseness of 
the Americans—how certain newspapers perpetually vilified 
them as miscreants , rascals and rebels —how the public mind 
was so set against them that even the shoe-blacks , as Mr. 
Wilkes said, talked of the colonies as their plantations, and 
•d the people there as if they had been their overseers and 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


203 


negroes —how the minister determined at last, to enforce the 
tea-tax —how, on hearing the news of this, as of the stamp 
act, the yankees muffled their drums, and played the dead 
march —how they took the sacrament never to submit to it 
—how the minister, to test their valour, sent three ships la 
den with this three-penny tea—how the yankees, dressed 
like Mohawks, boarded their ships and destroyed their car¬ 
goes'—how the minister, waxing more in wrath, sent more 
soldiers to quell the rebels—how the rebels insulted the sol¬ 
diers—how the soldiers fired on the rebels—how the port of 
Boston was shut by royal proclamation—how, in spite of the 
royal proclamation, the colonies would trade with her and 
send monies to her relief—how the lords and commons pe¬ 
titioned the king that, any rebel opposing the officers of his 
sacred majesty, should be instantly hung up without judge or 
jury—how the king thanked his noble lords and commons, 
and was graciously pleased to decree that all rebels thus of¬ 
fending should be thus hung up without judge or jury—how 
that, notwithstanding this gracious decree, when his majes¬ 
ty’s troops attempted to destroy the rebel stores at Concord, 
the rebels attacked and killed them, without any regard to his 
majesty’s decree. 

This unpardonable sin against the 44 Lord’s anointed,” which 
happened on the 19th of April 1775, served as the double bolt¬ 
ing and barring of the door against all hope of peace. Through¬ 
out America, it struck but one deep and awful sentiment, 
ii the sword is drawn , and we must now throw the scabbard 
away” In May, the news got to England, where it excited 
emotions that beggar all description. They somewhat, how¬ 
ever, resembled the effects of the trumpet of the great angel 
spoken of in the Revelations , that sounded “wo! wo! wo! 
to the inhabitants ” of America, and proclaimed the pouring 
forth of fire and sword. But, reserving this tragedy for the 
next chapter, we will conclude the present with the follow¬ 
ing anecdote. It will show at least, that doctor Franklin 
left no stone unturned to carry his point; and that where logic 
failed he had recourse to wit. 

THE CAT AND EAGLE. 

A FABLE, BY DOCTOR FRANKLIN. 

Lord Spencer was a great admirer of Dr. Franklin, and 
never missed sending him a card when he intended a quorum 
of learned ones at his table. The last time that our philo- 


20 2 


THE LIFE OF 


sopner enjoyed this honour, was in 1775, just before lie was 
driven from England by lord North. The conversation taking 
a turn on fables, lord Spencer observed, that it had certain¬ 
ly been a very lucky thing, especially for the young, that 
this mode of instruction had ever been hit on, as there was 
a something in it wonderfully calculated to touch a favourite 
string with them, i. e. novelty and surprise. They would 
listen, he said, to a fox, when they would not to a father, 
and they would be more apt to remember any thing good told 
them by an owl or a crow, than bv an uncle or an aunt. But 
I am afraid, continued his lordship, that the age of fables is 
past. iEsop and Phcedrus among the ancients, and Fontaine 
and Gay among the moderns, have given us so many line 
speeches from the birds and beasts, that I suspect theii 
budgets are pretty nearly exhausted. 

The company concluded with his lordship, except Frank¬ 
lin, who was silent. 

44 Well, doctor,” said lord Spencer, 44 what is your opinion 
on this subject?” 

44 Why, my lord,” replied Franklin, 44 1 cannot say that 
I have the honour to think with you in this affair. The birds 
and beasts have indeed said a great many wise things; but 
it is likely they will say a great many more yet before they 
are done. Nature, I am thinking, is not quite so easily ex¬ 
hausted as your lordship seems to imagine.” 

Lord Spencer, evidently confused, but still with that 
countenance of pleasure which characterizes great souls, 
when they meet superior genius, exclaimed—“Well, doc¬ 
tor, suppose you give us a fable? I know you are good at an 
impromptu.” The company all seconded the motion. Frank¬ 
lin thanked them for the compliment, but begged to be ex¬ 
cused. They would hear no excuses. They knew, they 
said, he could go it , and insisted he should gratify them. 
Finding all resistance ineffectual, he drew his pencil, and 
after scribbling a few minutes, reached it to Spencer, saying 
— 44 Well, my lord, since you will have it so, here’s a 
something fresh from the brain, but I’m afraid you’ll not find 
iEsop in it.” 

“Read it, doctor, read it!” was the cry of the noble lord 
and his friends. In a mood, spriteful arid pleasant, Frank¬ 
lin thus began— 44 Once upon a time—hem!—as an Eagle in 
the full pride of his pinions, soared over a humble farm¬ 
yard, darting his fiery eyes around in search of a pig, a 
lamb, or some such pretty tit-bit, what should lie behold but 


DR. FRANKI IN. 


‘203 


plump young rabbit, as he thought, squatted among the 
weeds. Down at once upon him, he pounced like thunder, 
and bearing him aloft in his talons, thus chuckled to himself 
with joy—Zounds, what a lucky dog I am! such a nice rab¬ 
bit here, this morning, for my breakfast! 

“ His joy was but momentary; for the supposed rabbit 
Happened to be a stout cat, who, spitting and squalling with 
rage, instantly stuck his teeth and nails, like any fury, into 
the eagle’s thighs, making the blood and feathers fly at a 
dreadful rate. 

“Hold! hold! for mercy's sake , hold ! cried the eagle, 
his wings shivering in the air with very torment. 

“ Villian! retorted the cat, with a tiger-like growl, dare 
you talk of mercy after treating me thus, who never injured 
you ?” 

O, God bless you, Mr. Cat, is that you? rejoined the ea¬ 
gle, mighty complaisant; ’pon honour, I did not intend, sir. 

I thought it was only a rabbit I had got hold of—and you 
know we are all fond of rabbits. Do you suppose, my dear 
sir, that if I had but dreamt it was you, I would ever have 
touched the hair of your head? No, indeed: I am not such 
a fool as all that comes to. And now, my dear Mr. Cat, 
come let’s be good friends again, and I’ll let you go with all 
my heart. 

“Yes, you’ll let me go, scoundrel, will you—here from 
the clouds—to break every bone in my skin!—No, villain, 
carry me back, and put me down exactly where you found 
me, or I’ll tear the throat out of you in a moment. 

“ Without a word of reply, the eagle stooped at once 
from his giddy height, and sailing humbly down, with great 
complaisance restored the cat to his simple farm-yard, there 
to sleep, or hunt his rats and mice at pleasure.” 

A solemn silence ensued. At length, with a deep pro¬ 
phetic sigh, lord Spencer thus replied: “ Ah ! Dr. Franklin 
I see the drift of your fable; and my fears have already made 
the application. God grant , that Britain may not prove the 
eagle, and America the cat.” This fable paraphrased in the 
Whig papers of that day, concludes in this way: 

Thus Britain thought in seventy-six, 

Her talons in a hare to fix ; 

But in the scuffle it was found, 

The bird received a dangerous wound, 

Which, though pretending oft to hide, 

Still rankles in his Royal side.” 


204 


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CHAPTER XL. 

Doctor Franklin now began to find his situation in Lon 
don extremely unpleasant. For twelve years, like heaven’s 
own minister of peace, he had pressed the olive-branch on 
the British ministry; and yet after all, their war-hawks 
could hardly tolerate the sight of him. They even went so 
far as to call him “ the lioary headed villain, who first stirred 
up the Americans to rebellion .” As soon as he could obtain 
his passports he left England. 

His old friend, Strahan, advised him to continue in that 
country, for that America would soon be filled with tumult 
and bloodshed. He replied, “ No, sir, where liberty is, there 
is my country .” 

Unbounded was the joy of the Americans on the return 
of so great a patriot and statesman. The day following he 
was elected by the legislature of Pennsylvania, a member 
of Congress. The following letters, in extract, to his con¬ 
stant friend, and the friend of science and liberty, the cele¬ 
brated doctor Priestley, will show how full his hands were 

‘ Philadelphia, July 7, 1 775. 

“ Dear Friend, 

“ Britain has begun to burn our sea port towns; secure, I 
suppose, that we shall never be able to return the outrage in 
kind. She may doubtless destroy them all. But is this the 
way to recover our friendship and trade? She must certainly 
be distracted; for no tradesman out of Bedlam ever thought 
of increasing the number of his customers by knocking them 
on the head; or of enabling them to pay their debts, by burn¬ 
ing their houses. 

“ My time was never more fully employed. I breakfast 
before six. At six I hasten to the committee of safety, for 
putting the province in a state of defence. At nine I go to 
Congress, which sits till after four. It will scarcely be credited 
in Britain, that men can be as diligent with us, from zeal for 
the public good, as with you, for thousands per annum. Such 
<s the difference between uncorrupted new states, and cor¬ 
rupted old ones. 

“ Great frugality and great industry are now become 
fashionable here: gentlemen, who used to entertain with twe 
or three courses, nride themselves now in treating with sim 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


205 


pie beef and pudding. By these means, and the stoppage of 
our consumptive trade with Britain, we shall be better able to 
pay our voluntary taxes for the support of our troops. Our 
savings in the article of trade, amount to near five millions 
of sterling per annum.—Yours, most affectionately, 

B. FRANKLIN. 

In another letter to the same, dated October 3d, he says: 

“Tell our dear good friend, doctor Price, who sometimes 
has his doubts and despondencies about oi tv firmness, that 
America is determined and unanimous: a very few tories 
and placemen excepted, who will probably scon export them¬ 
selves. Britain, at the expense of three millions has killed 
in this campaign, one hundred and fifty yankees! which is 
20,000 pounds sterling a head; and at Bunker’s hill she gain¬ 
ed half a mile of ground! During the same time she lost, at 
one place, near one thousand men, and we have had a good 
sixtv thousand children born in America. From these data, 
with the help of his mathematical head, lord North will easily 
calculate the time and expense necessary to kill us all, and 
conquer our whole territory.— 

I am yours, B. FRANKLIN.” 

In another letter to the same, and of the same date, he 
says: 

“Britain still goes on to goad and exasperate. She de¬ 
spises us too much; and seems to forget the Italian proverb, 
that 4 there is no little enemyS I am persuaded the body of 
the British people are our friends; but your lying gazettes may 
soon make them our enemies—and 1 see clearly that we are on 
the high road to mutual enmity, hatred, and detestation. A 
separation will of course be inevitable. It is a million of pities 
so fair a plan, as we have hitherto been engaged in for in¬ 
creasing strength and empire with fublic felicity, should 
be destroyed by the mangling hands of a few blundering 
ministers. It will not be destroyed: God will protfci 
and prosper it: you will only exclude youselves from any 
share of it. We hear that more ships and troops are coming 
out. We know you may do us a great deal of mischief, but 
we are determined to bear it patiently; but if you flatter 
yourselves with beating us into submission, you know neither 
the people nor the country. 

I am ever your’s, most affectionately, 

B. FRANKLIN 


18 


£06 


THE LIFE OF 


This letter of Doctor Franklin’s is the first thing I have 
seen that utters a whisper about Independence. It was, 
however, a prophetical whisper, and soon found its accom¬ 
plishment in the source that Franklin predicted—the bar¬ 
barity of Britain. To see war waged against them by a 
power whom they had always gloried in as their Mother 
Country —to see it waged because as the children of En- 
glishmen , they had only asked for the common rights of 
Englishmen —to see it waged with a savageness unknown 
among civilized nations,and all the powersof earth and hell,as 
it were, stirred up against them—the Indians with their bloody 
tomahawks and scalping knives—the negroes with their mid¬ 
night hoes and axes—the merciless flames let loose on their 
midwinter towns—with prisons, chains, and starvation of their 
worthiest citizens. 44 Such miserable specimens ,” as Franklin 
tinned them, 44 of the British government ,” produced every 
where in the colonies a disposition to detest and avoid it as a 
complication of robbery , murder , famine , fire and pestilence. 

On the 7th of June, resolutions respecting independence, 
were moved and seconded in Congress. Doctor Franklin 
threw all the weight of his wisdom and character into the 
scale in favour of independence. 

44 Independence,” said he, 44 will cut the Gordian knot 
at once , and give tis freedom. 

44 1. Ereedom from the oppressive kings , and endless wars , 
and mad politics , and forced religion of an unreasonable and 
cruel government. 

44 II. Freedom to choose a fair , and cheap , and reasonable 
government of our own. 

44 III. Freedom to live in friendship with all nations; and 

44 IV. Freedom to trade with all.” 

On the 4th of July, the Independence of the United States 
was declared. Immediately on the finishing of this great 
work, doctor Franklin, with a committee of the first talents 
m Congress, prepared a number of very masterly addresses 
to the courts of Europe, informing what the United States 
had done; assigning their reasons for so doing; and tender¬ 
ing in the most affectionate terms, the friendsliip and trade 
of the young nation. The potentates of Europe were, gene¬ 
rally, well pleased to hear that a new star had risen in the 
west, and talked freely of opening their treasures and pre¬ 
senting their gifts of friendship, &c. 

But the European pow r er that seemed most to rejoice in 
this event v^as the French. In August, doctor Franklin 


DR. FRANKLIN 


207 


was appointed by Congress to visit the French court, for the 
purpose of forming an alliance with that powerful people. It 
was his friend, Doctor B. Rush, who first announced to him 
the choice which Congress had made, adding, at the same 
time, his hearty congratulations on that account. 

“ Why, doctor,” replied he with a smile, 44 1 am now, like 
an old broom, worn down to the stump in my country’s ser¬ 
vice—near seventy years old. But such as I am, she must, 
[ suppose, have the last of me.” Like the brave Dutch repub¬ 
licans, each with his wallet of herrings on his back, when 
they went forth to negotiate with the proud Dons, so did doc¬ 
tor Franklin set out to court the great French nation, with no 
provisions for his journey, but a few hogsheads of tobacco. 
He was received in France, however, with a most hearty 
welcome, not only as an envoy from a brave people lighting 
for their rights, but also as the famed American philosopher, 
who by his paratonerres (lightning rods) had disarmed the 
clouds of their lightnings, and who, it was hoped, would re¬ 
duce the colossal power of Great Britain. 

He had not been long in Paris, before the attention of all 
the courts of Europe was attached to him, by a publication, 
wherein he demonstrated, that, the young, healthy, and 
sturdy republic of America, with her simple manners, labori¬ 
ous habits, and millions of fresh land and produce, would be 
a much safer borroiver of money, than the old, profligate, and 
debt-burthened government of Britain. The Dutch and 
French courts, in particular, read his arguments with such 
attention, that they soon began to make him loans. To the 
Fiench cabinet he pointed out, 44 the inevitable destruc¬ 
tion OF THEIR FLEETS, COLONIES, AND COMMERCE, IN CASE 

of a re-union of Britain and America.” There wanted 
but a grain to turn the trembling balance in favour of Ame¬ 
rica. 

But it was the will of fleaven to withhold that grain a 
good long while. And Franklin had the mortification to 
find, that although the French were an exceedingly polite 
people; constantly eulogizing General Washington and 
the Brave Bostonians, on every little victory; and also 
for their tobacco, very thriftily smuggling all the fire arms 
and ammunition they could into the United States, yet they 
had no notion of coming out manfully at once upon the 
British lion, until they should first see the American Eagle 
lay the monster on his back. Dr. Franklin, of course, was 
permitted to rest on his oars, at Passy, in the neighbourhood 


508 


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of Paris. His characteristic philanthropy, however, could 
not allow him to be idle at a court, whose pride and extra 
vagance were so horribly irreconcileable with his ideas ol 
the true use of riches, i. e. Independence for ourselves, and 
Beneficence to others. And lie presently came out in t ie 
Paris Gazette with the following master piece of Wir and 
Economics. 

To the Editors of the Paris Journal. 
Gentlemen, 

I was the other evening in a grand company, where the 
new lamp of Messrs. Quinquet and Lange was introduced, 
and much admired for its splendour; buta general inquiry w as 
made, whether the oil it consumed, was not in proportion to 
the lio-ht it afforded; in which case there would be no saving 
in the use of it. No one present could satisfy us on that 
point; which all agreed ought to be known, it being a very 
desirable thing to lessen, if possible, the expense of lighting 
our apartments, when every other article of family expense 
was so much augmented. 

1 was pleased to see this general concern for economy; 
for I love economy exceedingly. 

I went home, and to bed, three or four hours after mid¬ 
night, with my head full of the subject. An accidental sud 
den noise awaked me about six in the morning, when l was 
surprised to find my room filled with light; and I imagined, 
at first, that a number of these lamps had been brought ink 
it; but rubbing my eyes, I perceived the light came in at 
my windows. I got up, and looked out to see what might 
be the occasion of it, when I saw the sun just rising above 
the horizon, whence he poured his rays plentifully into my 
chamber, my domestic having negligently omitted, the pre¬ 
ceding evening, to close the shutters. 

I looked at iny watch, which goes very well, and found 
that it w r as but six o’clock; and still thinking it something 
extraordinary that the sun should rise so early, I looked in¬ 
to the almanack; where I found it to be the hour given for 
its rising on that day. 

Your readers, who, with me, have never seen any signs 
of sunshine before noon, and seldom regard the astronomical 
part of the almanack, will be as much astonished as 1 was. 
when they hear of his rising so early; and especially when I 
assure them that he gives light as soon as he rises. I am 
certain of the fact. 1 saw it with my own eyes. And 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


2(9 


having repeated this observation the three following morn¬ 
ings, 1 found always precisely the same result. 

Yet so it happens, that when I speak of this discovery to 
others, I can easily perceive by their countenances, though 
they forbear expressing it in words, that they do not quite 
believe me. One, indeed, who is a learned natural philoso¬ 
pher, has assured me that I must certainly be mistaken as 
to the circumstance of the light coming into my room; for it 
being well known, as he says, that there could be no light 
abroad at that hour, it follows that none could enter from 
without; and that of consequence, my windows being acci¬ 
dentally left open, instead of letting in the light , had only 
served to let out the darkness. 

This event has given rise, in my mind, to several serious 
and important reflections. I considered that, if 1 had not 
been awakened so early in the morning, l should have slept 
six hours longer by the light of the sun, and in exchange have 
lived six hours the following night by candle-light; and the lat¬ 
ter being a much more expensive light than the former, my 
love of economy induced me to muster up what little arithme 
tic I was master of, and to make some calculations, which 1 
shall give you, after observing, that utility is, in my opinion, 
the test of value in matters of invention, and that a disco 
very which can be applied to no use, or is not good for 
something, is good for nothing. 

I took for the basis of my calculation, the supposition that 
there are 100,000 families in Paris; and that these families 
consume in the night half a pound of candles, per hour. 1 
think this a moderate allowance, taking one family with 
another; for though I believe some consume less, I know 
that many consume a great deal more. Then, estimating 
seven hours per day, as the medium quantity between the 
time of the surfs rising and ours , and there being seven 
hours, of course, per night, in which we burn candles, the ac¬ 
count will stand thus: 

In 12 months there are nights 365; hours of each night 
in which we burn candles 7; multiplication gives for the to¬ 
tal number of hours 2 555. These multiplied by 100,000, 
the number of families in Paris, give 255,500,000 hours 
spent at Paris by candle-light, which, at half a pound of 
wax and tallow per hour, give 127,750,000 pounds, worth, 
at 3 livres the pound, 383,250,000 livres; upwards of 

I’HIRTY MILLIONS OF DOLLARS!!! 

An mmense sum! that the citv of Paris might save every 

18 * 


210 


THE LIFE OF 


year, by the economy of using sunshine instead of candles.* 
—If it should be said, that the people are very apt to be 
obstinately attached to old customs, and that it will be diffi¬ 
cult to induce them to rise before noon, consequently my 
discovery can be of little use, I answer, we must not despair. 
I believe all, who have common sense, as soon as they have 
learnt, from this paper, that it is daylight when the sun 
rises, will contrive to rise with him; and to compel the rest, 
I would propose the following regulations: 

First. Let a tax be laid of a louis, (a guinea,) per window, 
on every window that is provided with shutters to keep out 
the light of the sun. 

Second. Let guards be placed in the shops of the wax 
and tallow-chandlers; and no family be permitted to be 
supplied with more than one pound of candles per week. 

Third. Let guards be posted, to stop all the coaches, &c. 
that would pass the streets after sunset, except those of 
physicians, surgeons, and mid wives. 

Fourth. Every morning, as soon as the sun rises, let all 
the bells in the city be set ringing; and if that be not suffi¬ 
cient let cannon be tired in every street, to awake the 
sluggards effectually, and make them open their eyes to see 
their true interest. 

All the difficulty will be in the first two or three days: 
after which the reformation will be as natural and easy as 
the present irregularity". Oblige a man to rise at four in the 
morning, and, it is more than probable, he shall go willingly 
to bed at eight in the evening; and having had eight hours 
sleep, he will rise more willingly at four, in the morning 
following. 

For the great benefit of this discovery, thus freely com¬ 
municated and bestowed by me, on the good city of Paris, 
1 demand neither place, pension, exclusive privilege, nor 
any other reward whatever. I expect only to have the honour 
of it. And yet I know there are little envious minds, who 
will, as usual, deny me this, and say that my invention was 
known to the ancients. I will not dispute that the ancients 
knew that the sun would rise at certain hours. They possi¬ 
bly had almanacks that predicted it; but it does not follow, 
thence, that they knew that he gave light as soon as he rose. 
This is what I claim as my discovery. If the ancients knew it 5 
it must long since have been forgotten; for it certainly was 
unknown to the moderns, at least to the Parisians; which tc 
Drove, T need use but one plain simple argument. They are 


I)R. FRANKLIN. 


211 


as well instructed and prudent a people as exist, any w here 
in the world; all professing, like myself, to be lovers of 
economy; and, from the many heavy taxes required from 
them by the necessities of the state, have surely reason to 
be economical. I say it is impossible that so sensible a peo¬ 
ple, under such circumstances, should have dved so long by 
the smoky, unwholesome and enormously expensive light of 
candles , if they had really known that they might have as 
much pure light of the sun for nothing. I am, &c. 

An ABONNE. 

And now, as Dr. Franklin is permitted to breathe a little 
from his herculean toils, let us, good reader, breathe a little 
too, and amuse ourselves with the following anecdotes. 

Nothing can better illustrate the spirit, which Dr. Frank¬ 
lin carried with him to the court of Louis XVI., and the 
spirit he found there. 

On Dr. Franklin’s arrival at Paris, as plenipotentiary 
from the United States, during the revolution, the king ex¬ 
pressed a wish to see him immediately. As there was no 
going to the court of France in those days without permis 
sion of the wigmaker, a wigmaker of course was sent for. In 
an instant a richly dressed Monsieur, his arms folded in a 
prodigious muff of furs, and a long sword by his side, made 
his appearance. It was the king’s Wigmaker, with his ser¬ 
vant in livery, a long sword by his side too, and a load of 
sweet scented band-boxes, full of 44 de wig ,” as he said, “ de 
superb wig for de great docteer Franklin .” One of the wigs 
was tried on—a world too small! Band-box after band-box 
was tried; but all with the same ill success! The wigmaker 
fell into the most violent rage, to the extreme mortification 
of Dr. Franklin, that a gentleman so bedecked with silks 
and perfumes, should, notwithstanding, be such a child. Pre¬ 
sently, however, as in all the transports of a grand disco¬ 
very, the wigmaker cried out to Dr. Franklin, that he had 
just found out where the fault lay— 44 not in his wig as too 
small; O no, by gar l his wig no too small; but de docteer-s 
head too big; great deal too big.” Franklin, smiling, re¬ 
plied, that the fault could hardly lie there ; for that his head 
was made of God Almighty himself, who was not subject to 
err. Upon this the wigmaker took in a little; but still con¬ 
tended that there must be something tbo matter with Dr. 
Franklin’s head. It was at any rate, e said, out of the 
fashion. He begged Dr. Franklin wof \ only please for 


212 


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remember, dat his head had not de honeer to be made ui 
Parree. No, by gar! for if it had been made in Parree, it 
no bin more dan half such a head. 44 None of the French No- 
hlesse ,” he swore, 44 had a head any ting like his. Not de great 
duke d’Orleans, nor de grand monarque himself had half 
such a head as docteer Franklin. And he did not see,” he 
said, 44 what business any body had wid a head more big dan 
de head of de grand monarque .” 

Pleased to see the poor wigmaker recover his good hu¬ 
mour, Dr. Franklin could not find in his heart to put a 
check to his childish rant, but related one of his fine anec¬ 
dotes , which struck the wigmaker with such an idea of his 
wit, that as he retired, which he did, bowing most pro¬ 
foundly, he shrugged his shoulders, and with a look most 
significantly arch, he said: 

44 Jlli, docteer Frankline! docteer Frankline! I no won¬ 
der your head too big for my wig. By gar I ’fraid your 
head be too big for all de French nationg .” 


THE BLUE YARN STOCKINGS. 

When Dr. Franklin was received at the French court 
as American minister, he felt some scruples of con¬ 
science in complying with their fashions as to dress. 44 He 
hoped,” he said to the minister, 44 that as he was him¬ 
self a very plain man, and represented a plain republican 
people, the king would indulge his desire to appear at court 
in his usual dress. Independent of this, the season of the 
year, he said, rendered the change from warm yarn stock¬ 
ings to fine silk, somewhat dangerous.” 

The French minister made him a bow, but said, that the 
fashion was too sacred a thing for him to meddle with, but 
he would do himself the honour to mention it to his Ma¬ 
jesty. 

The king smiled, and returned word that Dr. Franklin 
was welcome to appear at court in any dress he pleased. In 
spite of that delicate respect for strangers, for which the 
French are so remarkable, the courtiers could not help 
staring, at first, at Dr. Franklin’s quaker-like dress, and 
especially his 44 Blue Yarn Stockings.” But it soon 
appeared as though he had been introduced upon this splen¬ 
did theatre only to demonstrate that, great genius, like true 
beauty, 44 needs not the foreign aid of ornament.” The 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


sis 


court were so dazzled with the brilliancy of his mind that 
they never looked at his stockings. And while many other 
ministers who figured in all the gaudy fashions of the dav 
are now forgotten, the name of Dr. Franklin is still men¬ 
tioned in Paris with all the ardour of the most affectionate 
enthusiasm 


- ■■ 


CHAPTER XLI. 

Imagination can hardly conceive a succession of pleasures 
more elegant and refined than those which Dr. Franklin, 
now on the shady side of threescore and ten, continued daily 
to enjoy in the vicinity of Paris—his mornings constantly 
devoted to his beloved studies, and his evenings to the cheer¬ 
ful society of his friends—the greatest monarch of Europe 
heaping him with honours unasked, and the brightest Wits 
and Beauties of his court vying with each other in their at¬ 
tentions to him. And thus as the golden hours rolled along, 
they still found him happy—gratefully contrasting his pre* 
sent glory with his humble origin, and thence breathing no¬ 
thing but benevolence to man—firmly confiding in the care 
of Heaven—and fully persuaded that his smiles would yet 
descend upon his countrymen, now fighting the good fight of 
liberty and happiness. 

While waiting in strong hope of this most desirable of ah 
events, he received, by express, December 1777, the wel¬ 
come news that the battle had been joined in America, and 
that God had delivered a noble wing of the British army 
into the hands of the brave republicans at Saratoga. O ye, 
who, rejecting the philosophy of all embracing love, know no 
joys beyond what the miser feels when his own little heap in¬ 
creases, how faintly can you conceive what this great apos¬ 
tle of liberty enjoyed when he found that his countrymen 
still retained the fire of their gallant fathers, and were re¬ 
solved to live free or press a glorious grave! He lost no time 
to improve this splendid victory to the good of his country. 
In several audiences with the king and his ministers, he 
clearly demonstrated that France in all her days of ancient 
danger had never known so dark a cloud impending over her 
asat this awful crisis. 44 If Great Britain,” said he, 44 already 
so powerful were to subdue the revolted colonies and add 


214 


THE LIFE OF 


all North America to her empire, she would in twenty years 
be strong enough to crush the power of France and not leave 
her an island or a ship on the ocean.” As a sudden flash of 
lightning from the opening clouds before the burst of thun¬ 
der and rain, such was the shock produced by this argu¬ 
ment on the mind of every thinking man throughout France. 
The courtiers with all their talents for dissembling could not 
conceal their hostile feelings from the British minister resi¬ 
dent among them. He marked it, not without sentiments of 
answering hostility, which he could no better conceal, and 
which, indeed, after the honest bluntness of his national cha¬ 
racter, he did not care to conceal. The increased attentions 
paid to Dr. Franklin, and the rejoicings in Paris on account 
of the American victories, were but illy calculated to soothe his 
displeasure. Bitter complaints were presently forwarded to 
his court—angry remonstrances to the French cabinet follow¬ 
ed—and in a short time the embers of ancient hate were 
blown up to flames of fury so diabolical that nothing but 
war, with all its rivers of human blood could extinguish it. 
War, of course, was proclaimed—Paris was illuminated— 
and the thunder of the Royal cannon soon announced to the 
willing citizens that the die was cast, and that the Grand 
Monarque was become the Ally of the United States. 

“ While there is any thing to be done nothing is done” said 
Caesar. Franklin thought so too. He had succeeded in his 
efforts to persuade the warlike French to take part with his 
oppressed countrymen; but the Spaniards and the Dutch 
were still neutral. To rouse their hostile feelings against 
Great Britain, and to make them the hearty partisans of 
Washington, was his next study. The event quickly showed 
that he had studied human nature with success. He who 
bad been the playmate of lightnings for the glory of God , 
found no difficulty in stirring up the wrath of man to praise 
him —by chastising the sons of violence. The tall black 
ships of war were soon seen to rush forth from the ports of 
Holland and Spain, laden with the implements of death, to 
arrest the mad ambition of Great Britain, and maintain the 
balance of power. How dearly ought the American peo¬ 
ple to prize their liberties, for which such bloody contribu¬ 
tion was laid on the human race! Imagination glances with 
terror on that dismal war whose spread was over half the 
solid and half the watery globe. Its devouring fires burned 
from the dark wilds of North America to the distant isles 
of India; and the blood of its victims was mingled with the 


DR. FRANKLIN 




brine of every ocean. But, thanks to God, the conflict, 
though violent, was but short. And much of tne honour of 
bringing it to a close is to be conceded to the instrumen 
talitv T Dr. Franklin. 

"We have Seen that in 1763, he was sent (of Heaven no 
doubt, for it was an act worthy of his all-benevolent charac¬ 
ter,) a preacher of righteousness, to the proud court of Bri¬ 
tain. His luminous preachings, (through the press,) on the 
injustice and unconstitutionality of the ministerial taxing 
measures on the colonies, shed such light, that thousands of 
honest Englishmen set their faces against them, and also 
against the war to which they saw it was tending. These 
converts to justice, these doves of peace, were not sufficient 
ly numerous to defeat the war-hawks of their bloody pur¬ 
poses. But when they found that the war into which they 
had plunged with such confidence, had not, instantly, as they 
expected, reduced the colonies to slavish submission; but 
that, instead thereof, one half Europe in favour of America, 
was in arms against them with a horrible destruction of lives 
and property which they had not counted on, and of which 
they saw no end, they seriously deplored their folly in not 
pursuing the counsel of doctor Franklin. The nation was 
still, however, dragged on in war, plunging like a stalled 
animal, deeper and deeper in disaster and distress, until the 
capture of lord Cornwallis and his army came like a thun¬ 
der-bolt, inflicting on the war party a death blow, from which 
they never afterwards recovered. 

Ur. Franklin received this most welcome piece of news, 
the surrender of lord Cornwallis, by express from America. 
He had scarcely read the letters with the tear of joy swell¬ 
ing in his patriot eye, when Mr. Necker came in. Seeing 
the transport on his face, he eagerly asked what good news. 
“ Thank God ,” replied Franklin, 44 the storm is past. The 
paratonerres of divine justice have drawn off the lightnings 
of British violence, and here, sir, is the rainbow of peace,” 
holding up the letter. What am I to understand by that, 
replied Necker. Why, sir, quoth Franklin, my lord Corn¬ 
wallis and his army are prisoners of war to general Wash 
ington. Doctor Franklin’s calculation, on the surrender of 
Cornwallis, that the storm was past, was very correct; for, 
although the thunders did not immediately cease, yet, after 
that event, they hardly amounted to any thing beyond a 
harmless rumbling, which presently subsided altogether, 
leaving a fine bright sky behind them. 


216 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XLII. 

The rest of the acts of doctor Franklin while he resided in 
France, and the many pleasures he enjoyed there, were first, 
the great pleasure of announcing to the French court, in 1781, 
as we have seen, the surrender of lord Cornwallis and his 
army to general Washington. Second, the still greater plea¬ 
sure of learning in 1782, that the British ministry were 
strongly inclined to “a peace talk.” Third, 1783, the 
greatest pleasure of all, the pleasure of burying the toina 
hawk , by general peace. 

Thus after having lived to see completely verified all his 
awful predictions to the blind and obstinate British cabinet 
about the result of this disastrous war; with losses indeed, be¬ 
yond his prediction—the loss of two thousand ships!—the loss 
of one hundred thousand lives!—the loss of seven hundred 
millions of dollars! and a loss still greater than all, the loss 
of the immense continent of North America, and the mono- 
ply of its incalculable produce and trade, shortly to fly on 
wings of canvass to all parts of the globe. 

Having lived to see happily terminated, the grand strug¬ 
gle for American liberty, which even Englishmen have pro¬ 
nounced “the last hope and probable refuge of mankindf 9 
and having obtained leave from congress to return, he took 
a last farewell of his generous Parisian friends, and embarked 
for his native country. 

On the night of the 4th of September, the ship made the 
light-house at the mouth of the Delaware bay. On coming 
upon deck next morning, he beheld all in full view and close 
at hand the lovely shores of America, “ where his fathers had 
dwelt.” Who can paint the joy-brightened looks of oui 
veteran patriot, when, after an absence of seven years, he be¬ 
held once more that beloved country for whose liberties and 
morals he had so long contended? Formerly, with an aching 
heart, he had beheld her as a dear mother, whose fame was 
tarnished, and her liberties half ravished bv foreign lords. 
But now he greets her as free again, and freed, through hea¬ 
ven’s blessing on her oicn heroic virtue and valour. Crown¬ 
ed thus with tenfold glory, he hails her with transport, as the 
grand nursery of civil and religious freedom, whose fair 
example of republican wisdom and moderation is, probably, 
destined of God to recommend the blessings of free govern 
ment to all mankind. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


217 


The next day in the afternoon he arrived at Philadelphia. 
It is not for me to describe what he felt in sailing along up 
these lovely shores, while the heaven within diffused a double 
brightness and beauty over all the fair and magnificent scenes 
around. Neither is it for me to delineate the numerous de¬ 
monstrations of public joy, wherewith the citizens of Phila¬ 
delphia welcomed the man whom they all delighted to honour 
Suffice it to say, that he was landed amidst the firing of can¬ 
non—that he was crowded with congratulatory addresses— 
that he was invited to sumptuous banquets, &c. &c. &c. But 
though it was highly gratifying to others to see transcendent 
worth so duly noticed, yet to himself, who had been so long 
familiar with such honours, they appeared but as baubles that 
had lost their tinsel. 

But there were some pledges of respect offered him, which 
afforded a heartfelt satisfaction; I mean those numbers of 
pressing invitations to accept the presidencies of sundry 
noble institutions for public good, as 

I. A society for diffusing a knowledge of the best politics 
for our republic. 

II. A society for alleviating the miseries of public pri¬ 
sons. 


III. A society for abolishing the slave trade—the relief 
of free negroes unlawfully held in bondage—and for better¬ 
ing the condition of the poor blacks. 

44 It was because,” said the trustees, 44 they well knew he 
nad made it the sole scope of his greatly useful life to pro¬ 
mote institutions for the happiness of mankind, that they 
now solicited the honour and benefit of his special care and 
guardianship.” 

Though now almost worn out with the toils of fourscore 
years, and oftentimes grievously afflicted with his old com¬ 
plaint, the gravel, he yet accepted the proffered appointments 
with great pleasure, and attended to the duties of them with 
all the ardour of youth. Thus affording one more proof, 


44 That, in the present as in all the past 
O S } r E MY COUNTRY, HEAVEN ! was still his last.’ 

“But though the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak.” 
His strength was so sensibly diminished that it could 
scarcely second his mind, which seemed as unimpaired as 
ever. 

But there was still one more service that his country look 
ed to him for, before he went to rest; I mean that of aiding 

19 


118 


I’HE LIFE OF 


tier councils in the grand convention that was about to sit in 
Philadelphia for the purpose of framing the present excellent 
constitution. He was called to this duty in 1787". The 
speech which he made in that convention has a high claim 
to our notice, not only because it was the last speech that 
Dr. Franklin ever made in public; but because nothing ever 
yet placed in a fairer light the charm of modesty in a great 
man; and also the force of temperance, exercise and cheer¬ 
fulness, which could preserve the intellectual faculties in 
such vigour, to the astonishing age of eighty-two !! 

Final Speech of doctor Franklin in the Federal Convention 
George Washington , President. 

Mr. President, 

I do not entirely approve this constitution at present, 
but, sir, I am not sure I shall never approve it; for, having 
lived long, I have experienced many instances of being 
obliged, by better information, to change opinions which 1 
once thought right. It is, therefore, that the older I grow, 
the more apt I am to doubt my own judgment, and to pay 
more respect to the judgment of others. Most men, indeed, 
as well as most sects of religion, think themselves in posses¬ 
sion of all truth , and that whenever others differ from them, 
it is so far error. Steele, a protestant, tells the pope, that 
“ the only difference between our two churches, in their 
opinion of the certainty of their doctrines, is, the Romish 
church is infallible , and the church of England never in the 
wrong.” 

But though manv private persons think almost as highly 
of their own infallibility, as of that of their sect, few express 
it so naturally as a certain French lady, who, in a little dis¬ 
pute with her sister, said, u I don’t know how it happens , 
sister , but I meet with nobody but myself that is always in 
the right.” In these sentiments, sir, I agree to this constitu¬ 
tion, with all its faults, if they are such; because I think a 
general government necessary for us, and there is no form 
of government but what may be a blessing, if well adminis¬ 
tered; and I believe farther, that this is likely to be well 
administered for a course of years, and can only end in des¬ 
potism, as other forms have done before it, when the people 
shall become so corrupted, as to need despotic government, 
being incapable of any other. I doubt too, whether any 
other convention we can obtain, may be able to make a bet¬ 
ter constitution. For when you assemble a number of men, 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


219 


to have toe advantage of their joint wisdom, you assemble 
with those men, all their prejudices, their passions, their 
errors of opinion, their local interests, and their selfish 
views. From such an assembly, can a perfect production 
be expected ? It therefore astonishes me, sir, to find this 
system approaching so near to perfection as it does; and 1 
think it will confound our enemies, who are waiting with 
confidence, to hear that our councils are confounded, like 
those of the builders of Babel, and that our states are on the 
point of separation, only to meet hereafter for the purpose 
of cutting each other’s throats. 

Thus l consent, sir, to this constitution, because I expect 
no better, and because I am not sure that this is not the best 
The opinions I have had of its errors, I sacrifice to the pub 
lie good. I have never whispered a syllable of them abroad 
Within these walls they were born, and here they shall die 
If every one of us, in returning to our constituents, were t<? 
report the objections he has had to it, and endeavour to gain 
partisans in support of them, we might prevent its being 
generally received, and thereby lose all the great advantages 
resulting naturally in our favour among foreign nations, as 
well as among ourselves, from our real or apparent unanimi¬ 
ty. Much of the efficiency of any government, in procuring 
and securing happiness to the people, depends on the general 
opinion of the goodness of that government, as well as of 
the wisdom and integrity of its governors. 

I hope, therefore, that for our own sakes , as a part of the 
people, and for the sake of our posterity , we shall act 
heartily and unanimously,in recommending this constitution, 
wherever our influence may extend, and turn our future 
thoughts and endeavours to the means of having it well ad¬ 
ministered. 

On the whole, sir, I cannot help expressing a wish, that 
every member of the convention, who may still have objec¬ 
tions, would, with me, on this occasion, doubt a little of his 
own infallibility, and making manifest our unanimity, put 
tiis name to this instrument. 


» 


£20 


THE LIFE OF 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


“ When ranting round in pleasure’s ring, 

Religion may be blinded, 

Or if she give a random sting, 

’Tis oft but little minded. 

But when on life we’re tempest driv’n, 

A conscience’s but a canker; 

A correspondence fix’d with heaven, 

Is sure a noble anchor.” 

The time is now at hand that Franklin must die. When 
that time approaches, or when only the chilling thought of 
it strikes the heart, how happy is he who in looking on the 
withered face or snowy locks of a dear friend, can enjoy the 
exulting hope that he is prepared for the awful change. This 
leads us to speak of doctor Franklin on a much higher 
subject than has yet engaged our attention. I mean his re¬ 
ligion. 

I have met with nothing in the life of any great man in 
our country about which there has been such universal in¬ 
quiry, as about the Religion of Dr. Franklin. 

Some, who in despite of Christ and all his apostles, will 
“judge their brother and judge him too by the letter which 
killeth , will not allow that Dr. Franklin had any religion at 
all, because, forsooth, he did not believe and “ confess Christ 
before men ,” in the manner they did. But others, constru¬ 
ing the Gospel, as Christ himself commands, by “the spirit 
which teaches that, “ with the heart man believeth unto sal¬ 
vation , through love and good works and that the right 
way of “ confessing Christ before men ” is by a good life .— 
These gentlemen tell us, that Dr. Franklin not only had re¬ 
ligion, but had it in an eminent degree. 

Most people seem inclined to judge of Dr. Franklin by 
these latter commentators, and wind up with the words or 
our great moral poet. 

“ For modes of faith, let graceless zealots fight; 

His can’t be wrong, whose Life is in the right.” 

For my part, after all that I have heard on this subject, 
and I have heard a great deal, I do not know that I have 
met with any thing that expresses my opinion of Dr. Frank¬ 
lin’s religion more happily than the following laconic remark 
by one of our most distinguished senators, I mean the ho¬ 
nourable Rufus King. Knowing that this gentleman was a 
compatriot of Dr. Franklin during the revolution, and also 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


221 


sat bj his side, a member of the grand Convention in 1788, 
I took the greater pleasure in asking his opinion of that 
great man in respect of his religion. “ Why, sir,*’ replied 
he, “ my opinion of doctor Franklin has always been, that, 
although he was not, perhaps, quite so orthodox in some ot 
his notions, he was very much a Christian in his practice . 
Nor is it indeed to be wondered at,” continued this able 
critic, “that a man of doctor Franklin’s extraordinary sa¬ 
gacity, born and brought up under the light of the Gospel, 
should have imbibed its spirit, and got his whole soul en¬ 
riched, and as it were interlarded, with its benevolent af¬ 
fections.” 

And I have since found from conversation with many of 
our most enlightened and evangelical divines, that they all 
agree, with Mr. King, that doctor Franklin’s extraordinary 
benevolence and useful life were imbibed, even unconsciously , 
from the Gospel. For whence but from the luminious and 
sublime doctrines of that blessed book could he have gained 
such pure and worthy ideas of God—his glorious unity, and 
most adorable benevolence:. always, himself, loving and do 
ing good to his creatures; and constantly seeking such to 
worship him? Whence, we ask, could he have got all these 
exalted truths—truths, so honourable to the Deity—so con- 
solatory to man—so auxiliary of human virtue and happi¬ 
ness—whence could he have got them, but from the light of 
the Gospel? Certainly, you will not say that he might have 
got them from the light of nature. For, look around you 
among all the mighty nations of antiquity. Look among the 
Egyptians—the Greeks—the Romans, to equal him? Two 
thousand years have rolled between them and us, and 
yet the immortal monuments of their arts—their poetry— 
their painting—their statuary—their architecture—their elo¬ 
quence—all triumphant over the wreck of time, have come 
down to our days, boldly challenging the pride of modern 
genius to produce their parallels. Evidently then, they had 
among them prodigies of mind equal to our Franklin. And 
vet how has it yet come to pass, that, with all their astonish¬ 
ing talents, and the light of nature besides, they were so 
stupidly blind and ignorant of God, while he entertained such 
exalted ideas of him ? That while they, like the modern 
idolaters of J uggernaut, were disgracing human reason by wor 
shipping not only four-footed beasts and creeping things , but 
even theives, murderers, &c. drifted, doctor Franklin wa? 


222 


THE LIFE OF 


elevating his devotions to the one all-perfect God, MOS1 
GLORIOUS IN ALL MORAL EXCELLENCE. 

And how has it come to pass that while they, imitating 
their bloody idols, could take pleasure in sacrificing ilieir 
prisoners of war l beholding murderous fights of gladia¬ 
tors! and even giving up their own children to be burnt alive! 
Franklin, by imitating the moral character of God, attained 
to all that gentle wisdom and affectionate goodness that we 
fancy when we think of an angel? To what, I ask, can we 
ascribe all this, but to the very rational cause assigned by 
Mr. King, viz. his having been born and brought up in a 
land of Gospel light and love? Indeed, who can read the 
life of doctor Franklin, attentively, without tracing in it, 
throughout, that true Christian charity which bound him, as 
by the heart-strings, to his fellow men—on every occasion 
going out of self to take an interest in them. “Rejoicing 
with them, when they acted wisely and attained to honour.” 
—“ Weeping with them when they acted foolishly and came 
to shame.” Never meeting with any good fortune, through 
wise doings of his own, but he made it known to them foi 
their encouragement in similar doings—never falling into 
misfortunes, by his own folly, but he was sure to publish 
that too, to deter others from falling into the like sufferings 

Now what was it but this amiable oneness of heart , with 
his fellow men; this sweet Christian sensibility to their in¬ 
terests and consequent generous delight in doing them good, 
that filled his life with such noble charities. “ Where love 
is” said the great William Penn, “ there is no labour; or 
if there be, the labour is sweet” And what was it but this, 
that bore him up so bravely under his many toils and hard¬ 
ships for his selfish brother James? 

What made him so liberal of his money and services to 
the base Collins and Ralph ? 

What made him so patient and forgiving of the injuries 
done him by the worthless Keimer and Keith? 

What made him so importunate with his young acquain¬ 
tance in London, to divert them from their brutalizing and 
fatal intemperance? 

What set him so vehemently against pride and extrava¬ 
gance, which besides starving all justice and hospitality 
among neighbours, tend to make them demons of fraud and 
cruelty to one another? 

What made him, through life, such a powerful orator t. 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


223 


industry, frugality, and honesty, which multiplied riches 
and reciprocal esteem and usefulness among men, and would 
make them all loving and happy as brothers P 

In short, all those labours which doctor Franklin took 
under the sun—labours so various and unending, for public 
and private good, such as his fire-engines; his lightning rods: 
his public libraries; his free schools; his hospitals; his lega¬ 
cies for encouragement of learning, and helping hundreds of 
indigent young mechanics with money to carry on their 
trades after his death—whence originated all this, but from 
that love which is stronger than death, subduing all obstacles, 
and overleaping the narrow limits of this mortal life ? 

What but the ingenuity of love, eager to swell the widow’s 
mite of charity into the rich man’s talent could have sug¬ 
gested the following curious method of making a little do a 
great deal of good ? 

“ Received of Benjamin Franklin, ten guineas, which I 
hereby promise, soon as I get out of my present embarrass¬ 
ments, to lend to some other honest and industrious man, as 
near as I can guess, he giving his obligation to act in the 
same way by the next needy honest man; so that by thus 
going around it may in time, though a small sum, do much 
good, unless stopped by a thief. 

JAMES HOPEWELL.” 

Passy , Aug. 10, 1773. 


What but the noble spirit of that religion whose sole aim 
is to “ overcome evil with good ” could have dictated the 
following instructions to Paul Jones, and his squadron, who 
after scouring the British channel, was about to make a de- 
scent on their coasts. 

“ As many of your officers and people have lately escaped 
from English prisons, you are to be particularly attentive 
to their conduct towards the prisoners you take, lest resent¬ 
ment of the more than barbarous usage which they have re¬ 
ceived from the English, should occasion a retaliation, and 
an imitation of what ought rather to be detested and avoided 
for the sake of humanity and the honour of our country. 

7 B. FRANKLIN. 

To Commodore P. Jones . 

April 28, 1779 ” 



224 


THE LIFE OF 


What but the spirit of that benevolent religion which la 
the firm patroness of all discoveries for human benefit, could 
have dictated the ensuing letter 44 to the commanders of 
American ships of war,” in favour of captain Cook. 

44 Genti.emen, 

44 A ship having been fitted out from England, before the 
commencement of this war, to make discoveries of new coun¬ 
tries in unknown seas, under the conduct of that celebrated 
navigator, captain Cook—an undertaking truly laudable in 
itself, as the increase of geographical knowledge facilitates 
the communication between distant nations, and the ex¬ 
change of useful products and manufactures, and the exten¬ 
sion of arts, whereby the common enjoyments of human life 
are multiplied and augmented, and science of other kinds in¬ 
creased, to the benefit of mankind in general. 

44 This is, therefore, most earnestly to recommend to every 
one of you, that in case the said ship, which is now expected 
to be soon in the European seas, on her return, should hap¬ 
pen to fall into your hands, you would not consider her as 
an enemy, but that you treat the said captain Cook and his 
people with all civility and kindness, affording them, as 
common friends to mankind, all the assistance in your 
power, which they may happen to stand in need of. 

I have the honour to be, &c. 

B. FRANKLIN, 

Minister plenipotentiary from the United States to 
the court of France. 

Passy . near Paris, March 10, 1779.” 

The truly Christian spirit of doctor Franklin, which dic¬ 
tated this passport for captain Cook, was so highly approved 
by the British government, that when Cook’s voyages in 
three splendid quarto volumes were printed, the lords of the 
admiralty sent doctor Franklin a copy accompanied with 
the elegant plates, and also a gold medal of that illustrious 
navigator, with a polite letter from lord Howe, informing 
him that this compliment was made to doctor Franklin with 
the king’s express approbation. 


What but the religion that brings life and immortality to 
light 44 could have sprung those high hopes and rich consola¬ 
tions,” which shine in the following letter from doctor 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


Franklin to his niece, on the death of her father, his favourite 
brother John Franklin. 

“Dear niece, 

“ I condole with you. We have lost a most dear and 
valuable relation. But it is the will of God that these mor¬ 
tal bodies be laid aside, when the soul is to enter into real 
life. This is rather an embryo state—a preparation for liv 
ing. A man is not completely born until he be dead. Why 
then should we grieve that a new child is born among the 
immortals—a new member added to their society? We are 
spirits. That bodies should be lent us, while they can afford 
us pleasure, assist us in acquiring knowledge, or doing good 
to our fellow creatures, is a kind and benevolent act of God. 
When they become unfit for these purposes, and afford us 
pain instead of pleasure, and answer none of the intentions 
for which they were given, it is equally kind and benevolent 
that a way is provided by which we may get rid of them. 
Death is that way. We ourselves in some cases, prudently 
choose a partial death. A mangled painful limb, which can¬ 
not be restored, we willingly cut off. He who plucks out 
a tooth parts with it freely, since the pain goes with it; and 
he who quits the whole body, parts at once with all pains, 
and possibilities of pains, it was capable of making him 
suffer. 

“Our friend and we were invited abroad on a grand 
party of pleasure, which is to last for ever. His chair was 
ready first, and he is gone before us. We could not all 
conveniently start together; and why should you and I be 
grieved at this, since we are soon to follow, and know where 
to find him? B. FRANKLIN.” 


What but that religion which teaches “the price of truth,” 
could have made him so penitent for having said any thing, 
in his youthful days against revelation ? And while the 
popular infidels of Europe, the Yoltaires, and Humes, and 
Bolingbrokes were so fond of filling the world with their 
books against Christ, that they might, as one of them said, 
“ crush the wretch,” what but a hearty esteem of him could 
have led Franklin to write the following pious reproof of a 
gentleman, who having written a pamphlet against Christi¬ 
anity, sent it to him, requesting his opinion of it 



226 


THE LIFE OF 


DR. FRANKLIN’S ANSWER. 

i( Sir, 

44 I have read your manuscript with some attention. B) 
tlie argument it contains against a particular providence , 
though you allow a general providence , you strike at the 
foundation of all religion. For, without the belief of a pro¬ 
vidence, that takes cognizance of, guards, and guides, and 
may favour particular persons, there is no motive to wor¬ 
ship a DEITY, to fear his displeasure, or to pray for his 
protection. I will not enter into any discussion of your 
principles, though you seem to desire it. At present I shall 
only give you my opinion, that though your reasonings are 
subtile, and may prevail with some readers, you will not 
succeed so as to change the general sentiments of mankind 
on that subject; and the consecpience of printing this piece 
will be, a great deal of odium drawn upon yourself, mischief 
to you, and no benefit to others. He that spits against the 
wind, spits in his own face. But were you to succeed, do 
you imagine any good would be done by it P You yourself 
may find it easy to live a virtuous life, without the assist¬ 
ance afforded by religion; you having a clear perception of 
the disadvantages of vice, and possessing a strength of reso¬ 
lution sufficient to enable you to resist common temptations. 
But think how great a portion of mankind consists of weak 
and ignorant men and women, and of inexperienced incon¬ 
siderate youth of both sexes, who have need of the motives 
of religion to restrain them from vice, to support their vir¬ 
tue, and retain them in the practice of it till it becomes ha¬ 
bitual, which is the great points of its security. And, 
perhaps, you are indebted to her original, that is, to your 
religious education, for the habits of virtue upon which you 
now justly value yourself. You might easily display your 
excellent talents of reasoning upon less hazardous objects, 
and thereby obtain a rank with our most distinguisred 
authors. For among us it is not necessary, as among the 
Hottentots, that a youth, to be raised into the company of 
men, should prove his manhood by beating his motner. I 
would advise you, therefore, not to attempt unchaining the 
tiger , but to burn this piece before it is seen by any other 
person—whereby you will save yourself a great deal of mor¬ 
tification from the enemies it may raise against you, and, 
perhaps, a good deal of regret and repentance. If men are 
so wicked with religion, what would they be *' :, hont it? 1 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


227 

*ntend this letter itself as a proof of my friendship, and 
therefore add no professions to it, but subscribe myselt 
simply yours. B. FRANKLIN.” 

For the following, I owe many thanks to the honourable 
Mr. Rufus King. 

After having answered my question on that subject, as 
before stated, viz. that he considered Dr. Franklin 44 very 
much a Christian in practice ,” he added with a fine smile, as 
if happy that he possessed an anecdote so honourable to the 
religious character of his illustrious friend, and the friend of 
mankind— 44 now , sir , Pit tell you an anecdote of Dr. Frank - 
lin. ” The Convention of ’88, of which Dr. Franklin and 
myself were members, had been engaged several weeks in 
framing the present Constitution, and had done nothing. 
Dr. Franklin came in one morning, and rising in his place, 
called the attention of the house.— 44 We have been here, 
Mr. Speaker,” said he, (George Washington was in the 
chair,) 44 a long time, trying to act on this important sub¬ 
ject, and have done nothing; and in place of a speedy and 
successful close of our business, we see nothing but dark 
clouds of difficulty and embarrassment gathering before us. 
It ia high time for us, Mr. Speaker, to call in the direction 
of a wisdom above our own.—(The countenance of Wash¬ 
ington caught a brightness at these words, as he leaned for¬ 
ward in deepest gaze on Dr. Franklin.) Yes, sir, it is high 
time for us to call in the direction of a wisdom above our 
own. Our fathers before us, the wise and good men of an¬ 
cient times, acted in this wav. Aware of the difficulties and 
perils that attend all human enterprize, they never engaged 
in any thing of importance without having implored the 
guidance and blessing of heaven. The scriptures are full 
of encouragements to such practice. They every where 
assert a particular providence over al. his works. They 
assure us that the very hairs of our head are all numbered; 
and that not even a sparrow but is continually under the eye 
of his parental care. This, Mr. Speaker, is the language of 
the gospel, which I most implicitly believe; and which pro 
mises the guidance of divine wisdom to all who ask it. We 
have not asked it; and that may be the reason why we have 
been so long in the dark. I therefore move, Mr. Speaker, 
that it be made a rule to open the business of this house, 
every morning, with prayer.” 

The following: also will show Dr. Franklin’s firm belief 


228 


THE LIFE OF 


in that very precious article of the religion of Christ— a par* 

TICULAR PROVIDENCE. 

To William Strahan, Esq. London 

France, August 19 th, 1784. 

Dear Old Friend, 

You ‘ 4 fairly acknowledge that the late war terminated 
quite contrary to your expectation.” Your expectation 
was ill founded; for you would not believe your old friend, 
who told you repeatedly, that, by those measures, England 
would lose her colonies, as Epictetus warned in vain his 
master, that he would break his leg. You believed rather 
the tales you heard of our poltroonery, and impotence of 
body and mind. Don’t you remember the story you told 
me of the Scotch sergeant, who met with a party of forty 
American soldiers, and, though alone, disarmed them all, 
and brought them in prisoners! A story almost as improbable 
as that of the Irishman, who pretended to have alone taken 
and brought in five of the enemy, by surrounding them. 
And yet, my friend, sensible and judicious as you are, but 
partaking of the general infatuation, you seem to believe it. 
The word general puts me in mind of a general, your general 
Clark, who had the folly to say, in my hearing, at sir John 
Pringle’s, that with a thousand British grenadiers, he w r ould 
undertake to go from one end of America to the other, and 
geld all the males. It is plain, he took us for a species of 
animals very little superior to brutes. The parliament, too, 
believed the stories of another foolish general, I forget his 
name, that the Yankees never felt bold. Yankee w r as un¬ 
derstood to be a sort of Yahoo, and the parliament did not 
think the petitions of such creatures were fit to be received 
and read in so wise an assembly. What was the consequence 
of this monstrous pride and insolence! You first sent small 
armies to subdue us, believing them more than sufficient, 
but soon found yourselves obliged to send greater; these, 
whenever they ventured out of sight of their ships, were 
either obliged to scamper, or were beaten and taken pri- 
soners. An American planter, who had never seen Europe, 
was chosen by us to command our troops, and continued 
during the whole war. This man sent home to you, one 
after another, five of your best generals, bafiled, their heads 
bare of laurels, disgraced even in the opinion of their em¬ 
ployers. Your contempt of our understandings, in com¬ 
parison with your own, appeared to be not much bettei 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


229 


founded than that of our courage, if we may judge by this 
circumstance, that in whatever court of Europe a Yankee 
negotiator appeared, the wise British minister was routed, 
—put in a passion,-—picked a quarrel with your friends,— 
and was sent home with a flea in his ear. But after all, 
my dear friend, do not imagine that I am vain enough to 
ascribe our success to any superiority in any of those points. 
I am too well acquainted with all the springs and levers of 
our machine, not to see that our human means were une¬ 
qual to our undertaking, and that, if it had not been for the 
justice of our cause, and the consequent interposition of 
Providence, in which we had faith, we must have been 
ruined. If I had ever before been an Atheist, I should now 
have been convinced of the being and government of a 
Deity! It is HE who 44 abases the proud, and exalts the 
humble.” May we never forget his goodness to us, and may 
our future conduct manifest our gratitude! 

B. FRANKLIN. 

Now, can any honest man, after this, entertain a doubt 
that Dr. Franklin was indeed, 44 in practice very much a 
Christian .” 

I am aware that some good men have been offended, and 
I may add, grieved too, that Dr. Franklin should ever have 
spoken slightingly of faith , &c. But these gentlemen may 
rest assured, that Dr. Franklin did this only to keep people 
from laying such stress on faith , &c. as to neglect what is 
infinitely more important, even Love and Good Works. 
And in this grand view, do not the holy apostles, and even 
Christ himself treat these things in the same way? Every 
where speaking of 44 faith and baptism and long prayers ,” 
when attempted to be put in place of love and good works, 
as mere 44 beggarly elements ,” and even 44 damning hypocri¬ 
sies” However, let honest men read the following letter 
on the subject, by Dr. Franklin himself. While it serves 
to remove their doubts and prejudices, it may go to prove 
that if he had errors in religion, the}? were not the errors of 
the heart, nor likely to do any harm in the world; but con¬ 
trariwise, to make us all much better Christians, and happier 
men, than we are. 

The letter is in answer to one from an illustrious foreigner; 
»vho, on a trip to Philadelphia, made Dr. Franklin a visit. 
I'he doctor, for some malady, advised him to try electricity; 
and actually gave him seveial shocks. He had not long 

20 


230 


THE LIFE OF 


been gone, before he wrote Dr. Franklin a most flattering 
account of the effects of his electricity-—begged him to be 
assured he should never forget such kindness —and con¬ 
cluded with praying that they might both have grace to live 
a life of Faith, that if they were never to meet again ih 
this world, they might at last meet in heaven. 

DR. FRANKLIN’S ANSWER. 

Philadelphia , June 6, 1753. 

Sir, 

I received your kind letter of the 2d instant, and am glad 
that you increase in strength; I hope you will continue 
mending till you recover your former health. 

As to the kindness you mention, the only thanks I desire 
is, that you would always be equally ready to serve any 
other person that may need your assistance, and so let good 
offices go round, for mankind are all of a family. 

For my own part, when I am employed in serving others, 
I do not look upon myself as conferring favours, but as pay¬ 
ing debts. In my travels, and since my settlement, I have 
received much kindness from men, to whom I shall never 
have any opportunity of making the least direct return—and 
numberless mercies from God, who is infinitely above being 
benefitted by our services. The kindness from men, I can, 
therefore, only return on their fellow men, and I can only 
show my gratitude for those mercies from God, by a readi¬ 
ness to help his other children, and my brethren. For I 
do not think that thanks and compliments, though repeated 
weekly, can discharge our real obligations to each other, and 
much less those to our Creator. You will see in this, my 
notion of good works; that I am far from expecting, as you 
suppose, to merit heaven by them. By heaven, we under¬ 
stand a state of happiness; infinite in degree, and eternal in 
duration. I can do nothing to deserve such rewards. He 
that, for giving a draught of water to a thirsty person, should 
expect to be paid with a good plantation, would be modest 
in his demands, compared with those who think they deserve 
heaven for the little good they do on earth. Even the mixed 
imperfect pleasures we enjoy in this world, are rather from 
God’s goodness, than our merit; how much more such hap¬ 
piness as heaven. For my part, I have not the vanity to 
think I deserve it, the folly to expect it, nor the ambition to 
desire it; but content myself in submitting to the will and 
disposal of that God who made me—who has hitherto pre- 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


2S1 


served and blessed me—and in whose fatherly goodness 
I may well confide, that he will never make me miserable— 
and that even the afflictions I may at any time suffer shall 
tend to my benefit. 

The faith you mention has, doubtless, its use in the world 
I do not desire to see it diminished. But I wish it were 
more productive of good works than I have generally seen it, 1 
mean real good works; works ot kindness, charity, mercy, and 
public spirit; not holiday keeping, sermon reading or hear¬ 
ing, performing church ceremonies, or making long prayers, 
filled with flatteries and compliments, despised even by wise 
men, and much less capable of pleasing the Deity. The worship 
of God is a duty ; the hearing and reading of sermons may be 
useful; but if men rest in hearing and praying , as too many 
do , it is as if a tree should value itself on being watered and 
putting forth leaves, though it never produced any fruit. 
Your great master thought much less of these outward ap¬ 
pearances and professions than many of his modern disciples. 
He preferred the doers of the word to the mere hearers • 
the son that seemingly refused to obey his father, and yet 
performed his commands, to him that professed his readiness, 
but neglected the work; the heretical but charitable Samari¬ 
tan, to the uncharitable though orthodox priest and sanctified 
Levite: and those who gave food to the hungry, drink to the 
thirsty, raiment to the naked, entertainment to the stranger, 
and relief to the sick, though they never heard of his name, 
he declares they shall in the last day be accepted, when those 
who cry Lord, Lord, who value themselves on their faith, 
though great enough to perform miracles, but have neglected 
good works, shall be rejected. He professed he came “ not 
to call the righteous,but sinners to repentance ,” which implied 
his modest opinion, that there were some in his time so good , 
that they needed not to hear even him for improvement; 
but now-a-days, we have scarce a little parson that does 
not think it the duty of every man within his reach, to think 
exactly as he does, and that all dissenters offend God. I 
wish to such more humility, and to you health and happi- 
ness, being 

Your friend and servant, 

B. FRANKLIN. 


What but the spirit of immortal love, which, not content 
with doing much good in life, fondly looks beyond, and 
feasts on the happiness that others are to derive from us long 


2S2 


THE LIFE OF 


after we have ceased to live on earth; what, I ask, but that 
ove, could have dictated 

DR. FRANKLIN’S WILL. 

44 When thou makest a feast, call not thy rich neighbours: 
lest they also bid thee again, and a recompense be made thee 

44 But when thou makest a feast, call the poor ; and thou 
shalt be blessed. For they cannot recompense thee, for thou 
shaltbe recompensed at the resurrection of the just.” 

Luke, xiv. 

Sentiments divinely sublime!—Who, without emotions in¬ 
describable, can read them! And yet if they were lost from 
the Bible, they might be found again in the Will of Benja¬ 
min Franklin. 

While many others “ rise early, and late take rest , and 
eat the bread of labour and care,” that they may “ die rich” 
—leaving their massy treasures, some scanty legacies ex¬ 
cepted, to corrupt a few proud relatives, doctor Franklin 
acted as though the above text, the true sublime of wisdom 
and benevolence, was before him. 

After having bequeathed his books, a most voluminous and 
valuable collection, partly to his family, and partly to the 
Boston and Philadelphia philosophical societies; and, after 
having divided a handsome competence among his children, 
and grand children, he goes on as follows: 

44 1. Having owed my first instructions in literature to the 
free grammar schools in Boston, I give one hundred pounds 
sterling to the free schools in that town, to be laid out in 
silver medals as honorary rewards for the encouragement of 
scholarship in those schools. 

“ II. All the debts to my post-office establishment, which 1 
held many years, I leave to the Philadelphia hospital. 

44 III. Having always been of opinion, that in democrati- 
cal governments, there ought to be no offices of great profit, 
l have long determined to give a part of my public salary 
to public uses; and being chiefly indebted to Massachusetts, 
my native state, and Pennsylvania, my adopted state, for 
lucrative employments, I feel it my duty to remember them; 
and having from long observation, and my own early expe¬ 
rience, discovered that the best objects for assistance are indi¬ 
gent young persons, and the best modes of assistance, a plain 
education, a good trade, and a little money to set them up: 
and having been set up in business, while a poor boy, in 
Philadelphia, by kind loans of money from two friends there, 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


233 


which was the foundation of my fortune and all die useful- 
ness that the world ascribed to me, I feel a wish to be use¬ 
ful, after my death, to others, in the loans of money; I 
therefore devote, from the savings of my salaries, the follow¬ 
ing sums, to the following persons and uses: 

“1. To the inhabitants of Boston and Philadelphia, one 
thousand pounds sterling to each city, to be let out by the 
oldest divines of different churches, on a Jive per cent, interest 
and good security , to indigent young tradesmen, not bache¬ 
lors .i (as they have not deserved much from their country 
and the feebler sex,) but married men. 

“ 2 . No borrower to have more than sixty pounds sterling, 
nor less than fifteen. 

“3. And in order to serve as many as possible in their 
turn, as well as to make the payment of the principal bor¬ 
rowed more easy, each borrower shall be obliged to pay, with 
the yearly interest, one tenth part of the principal; which 
sums of principal and interest, so paid, shall be again lent 
out to fresh borrowers. 

B. FRANKLIN.” 

In a late Boston paper, the friends of humanity have read 
with much pleasure that doctor Franklin’s legacy to the in¬ 
digent young married tradesmen of that town, of §4444 44 
cents, is now increased to §10,902 28 cents, after having been 
the means of setting up 206 poor young men; besides 73 
others, who are now in the use of the capital. 


—••►>6 © ©««» — 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


The Death of Doctor Franklin. 

One cannot read the biography of this great man without 
being put in mind of those sweet though simple strains of 
the bard of Zion. 

“ Happy the man, whose tender care 
Relieves the poor distrest; 

When he’s with troubles compass’d roup 1, 

The Lord shall give him rest. 

“ If, he in languishing estate, 

Oppress’d with sickness, lie, 

The Lord shall easy make his bed, 

And inward strength supply.” 

26 * 


234 


THE LIFE OF 


The latter end of doctor Franklir affords glorious proof 
that nothing so softens the bed of sickness, and brightens 
the gloom of the grave, as a life spent in works of love to 
mankind. 

See George Washington, who by an active and disinter¬ 
ested benevolence, was called “The Father of his Coun¬ 
try.” See Martha Washington, who by domestic virtues, 
and extensive charities, obtained to herself the high character 
of “ the Mother to the Poor.” —Both of these found the 
last bed spread as it were with roses; and the last enemy 
converted into a friend. Such is the lot of all who love; “ not 
in word, but in deed and in truth.” 

The friends of doctor Franklin never entered his chamber 
without being struck with this precious text, u Mark the perfect 
man , and behold the upright, for the end of that man is peace.” 
Though laid on the bed whence he is to rise no more, he 
shows no sign of dejection or defeat. On the contrary, he 
appears like an aged warrior reposing himself after glorious 
victory; while his looks beaming with benevolence, express 
an air pure and serene as the Heaven to which he is going. 
Death, which most sick people are so unwilling to mention, 
was to him a favourite topic, and the sublime conversations 
of Socrates on that great subject, were heard a second time, 
from the lips of our American Franklin, pregnant with 
“ immortality and eternal life” No wonder then that with 
such views doctor Franklin should have been so cheerful on 
his dying bed; so self-possessed and calm, even under the 
tortures of the gravel, which was wearing him down to the 
grave. “ Don’t go away,” said he to the Rev. Dr. Colline, 
of the Swedes’ church, Philadelphia, who, as a friend, was 
much with him in his last illness, and at sight of his agonies 
and cold sweats under the fits of the gravel, would take up 
his hat to retire—“ O no! don’t go away” he would say, 
“ don’t go away. These pains will soon be over. They 
are for my good. And besides, what are the pains of a 
moment in comparison of the pleasures of eternity.” 

Blest with an excellent constitution, well nursed by na¬ 
ture’s three great physicians, temperance , exercise , and 
cheerfulness , he was hardly ever sick until after his seventy- 
sixth year. The gout and gravel then attacked him with 
great severity. He bore their excruciating tortures as be¬ 
came one who habitually felt that he was as he said, in the 
hands of an infinitely wise and benevolent being, who did 
all things right. 

“ o 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


235 

His physician, the celebrated Dr. Jones, published the 
lollowing account of his last illness. 

“The stone, had for the last twelve months confined him 
chiefly to his bed; and during the extreme painful paroxysms, 
ne was obliged to take large doses of laudanum to mitigate 
his tortures—still in the intervals of pain, he not only amused 
nimself with reading and conversing with his family, and his 
friends who visited him, but was often employed in doing 
business of a public as well as private nature, with various 
persons who waited on him for that purpose, and in every 
instance displayed, not only that readiness of doing good, 
which was the distinguishing characteristic of his life, but the 
fullest possession of his uncommon mental abilities; and not 
unfrecpiently indulged himself in those flashes of wit and enter¬ 
taining anecdotes, which were the delight of all who heard him. 

44 About sixteen days before his death, he was seized with a 
pain in his left breast, which increased till it became ex¬ 
tremely acute, attended with a cough and laborious breath¬ 
ing. During this state, when the severity of his pains some 
times drew forth a groan, he would observe, that, 44 he was 
afraid he did not bear them as he ought—acknowledged his 
grateful sense of the many blessings he had received from the 
Supreme Being , who had raised him from small and low 
beginnings to such high rank and consideration among men 
—and made no doubt but his present afflictions were kindly 
intended to wean him from a world , in which he was no longer 
fd to act the part assigned him. In this frame of body and 
mind he continued till five days before his death, when an 
imposthumation in his lungs, suddenly burst, and discharged 
a great quantity of matter, which he continued to throw up 
while he had strength, but, as that failed, the organs of 
respiration became gradually oppressed—a calm lethargic 
state succeeded—and, on the 7th of April, 1790, about ele¬ 
ven o’clock at night he quietly expired, closing a long and 
useful life of eighty-four years and three months .” 

Come holy calm of the soul! Expressive silence come! 
and meditating the mighty talents of the dead, and their con¬ 
stant application to the glory of the giver , let us ascend with 
him on the wings of that blessed promise, 44 Blessed are the 
dead who die in the Lord ! even so saith the Spirit , for they 
rest from their labours and their works do follow them” 

That Franklin is now enjoying that rest which 44 remain - 
5 th for the people of God ”—and that while many a blood¬ 
stained monster who made great noise in the world, is fol 


236 


THE LIFE OF 


lowed by the cries of thousands of widows and orphans* 
Franklin dying in the Lord, and followed by the blessings 
of thousands, fed, clothed, educated, and enriched by his 
charities, is in glory, may be fairly inferred from the fol¬ 
lowing most valuable anecdote of him. 

Naturalists tell us, that so great is the paternal care ol God, 
that every climate affords the food and physic best suited to 
the necessaries of its population. What gratitude is due to 
that goodness, which foreseeing the dangers impending over 
this country from British injustice, sent us two such protec¬ 
tors as Franklin and Washington? The first, (the forerun¬ 
ner of the second,) like the lightning of Heaven, to expose 
the approaching tempest; and the second, like the rock of the 
ocean, to meet that tempest in all its fury, and dash it back 
on its proud assailants? And how astonishing too, and al¬ 
most unexampled that goodness, which with talents of wis¬ 
dom and fortitude to establish our republic, combined the 
cardinal virtues of justice, industry , and economy that alone 
can render our republic immortal? 

Hoping that our youth may be persuaded to love and imi¬ 
tate the virtues of the men whose great names they have been 
accustomed, from the cradle, to lisp with veneration, I have 
long coveted to set these virtues before them. The grey 
haired men of other days, have given me their aid. The 
following I obtained from the Rev. Dr. Helmuth, of the 
German church, Philadelphia. Hearing that this learned 
and pious divine possessed a valuable anecdote of doctor 
Franklin, I immediately waited on him. “Yes, sir,” said he, 
“ I have indeed a valuable anecdote of doctor Franklin, which 
I would tell you with great pleasure; but as I do not speak 
English very well, l wish you would call on David Ritter, at 
the sign of the Golden Lamb, in Front street; he will tell it 
to you better I hastened to Mr Ritter, and told him my 
errand. He seemed mightily pleased at it, and said, “Yes, 
I will tell you all I know of it. You must understand then, 
sir, first of all, that I always had a prodigious opinion of 
doctor Franklin, as the usefulest man we ever had among us, 
by a long way; and so hearing that he was sick, I thought I 
would go and see him. As I rapped at the door, who should 
come and open it but old Sarah Humphries. I was right glad 
to see her, for I had known her a long time. She was 
of the people called Friends; and a mighty good sort of 
body she was too. The great people set a heap of store by 
her, for she was famous throughout the town for nursing and 


DR. FRANKLIN. 


23? 

tending on the sick. Indeed, many of them, I believe, hardly 
thought they could sicken, and die right if they had not old 
Sarah Humphries with them. Soon as she saw me, she said, 
‘Well David, how dost?’ 

“ * O, much after the old sort, Sarah,’ said I; ‘but that’s 
neither here nor there; I am come to see doctor Franklin.’ 

“ ‘ Well then,’ said she, ‘thou art too late, for he is just 
dead !' 

“ ‘ Alack a day,’ said I, ‘ then a great man is gone.’ 

“‘Yes, indeed,’ said she, ‘and a good one too; for it 
seemed as though he never thought the day went away as it 
ought, if he had not done somebody a service. However, 
David,’ said she, ‘ he is not the worse off for all that now, 
where he is gone to: but come, as thee came to see Ben¬ 
jamin Franklin, thee shall see him yet.’ And so she took me 
into his room. As we entered, she pointed to him, where 
he lay on his bed, and said, ‘ there , did thee ever see any 
thing look so natural?’ 

“ And he did look natural indeed. His eyes were close— 
but that you saw he did not breathe, you would have thought 
he was in a sweet sleep, he looked so calm and happy. Ob¬ 
serving that his face was fixed right towards the chimney, 

I cast my eyes that way, and behold! just above the mantle- 
piece was a noble picture! O it was a noble picture , sure 
enough! It was the picture of our Saviour on the cross. 

“ I could not help calling out, ‘Bless us all, Sarah!’ said 
[, ‘ what’s all this?’ 

“ ‘What dost mean, David,’ said she, quite crusty. 

“ ‘ Why, how came this picture here, Sarah ?’ said I, ‘ you 
know that many people think he was not after this sort.’ 

“ ‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I know that too. But thee knows 
that many who makes a great fuss about religion have very 
little, while some who say but little about it have a good 
deal.’ 

“ ‘ That’s sometimes the case, I fear, Sarah;’ said I. 

“ ‘ Well, and that was the case,’ said she, ‘ with Benja¬ 
min Franklin. But be that as it may, David, since thee asks 
me about this great picture, I’ll tell thee how it came here. 
Many weeks ago, as lie lay, lie beckoned me to him, and told 
me of this picture up stairs, and begged I would bring it to 
him. I brought it to him. His face brightened up as he 
looked at it; and he said, ‘ Aye, Sarah ,’ said he, ‘ there's a 
picture worth looking at! that's the picture of him who came 
info theivorhlto teach men to love one another!' Then af- 


‘238 


THE LIFE OF 


ter looking wistfully at it for some time, lie said, 4 Sarah ,’ 
said he, 4 set this picture up over the mantlepiece , right before 
me as I lie; for I like to look at itj and when I had fixed it 
up, he looked at it, and looked at it very much; and indeed, 
as thee sees, he died with his eyes fixed on it . 5 55 

Happy Franklin! Thus doubly blest! Blest in life, by a 
diligent co-working with “the great Shepherd, 55 in his 
precepts of perfect love.—Blest in death, with his closing 
eyes piously fixed upon him, and meekly bowing to the last 
summons in joyful hope that through the force of his divine 
precepts, the 44 wintry storms 55 of hate will one day pass 
awav, and one “eternal spring of love and peace encircle 
all.* 

Now Franklin in his lifetime had written for himself an 
epitaph , to be put upon his grave, that honest posterity might 
see that he was no unbeliever , as certain enemies had slan¬ 
dered him, but that he firmly believed “ that his Redeemer 
livelh; and that, in the latter day he shall stand upon the earth; 
and that though worms destroyed his body , yet in his fiesh 
he should see God.” 


franklin’s epitaph. 


“THE BODY 

OF 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN , PRINTER , 

LIKE THE COVER OF AN OLD BOOK, 

its contents torn out , 
and stripped of its lettering and gilding , 
lies here food for worms , 

Yet the work itself shall not be lost; 
cm it will, as he believed, appear once more 

IN A NEW 

and more beautiful edition , 
corrected and amended 

BY 

THE AUTHOR” 

This epitaph was never put upon his tomb. But the friend 
ut man needs no stone of the valley to perpetuate his memo 



DR. FRANKLIN. 


239 


ry. It lives among the clouds of heaven. The lightnings, 
in their dreadful courses, bow to the genius of Franklin. 
His magic rods, pointed to the skies, still watcii the irrup 
tions of the fiery meteors. They seize them by then 
hissing heads as they dart forth from the dark chambers of 
the thunders; and cradled infants, half waked by the sud¬ 
den glare, are seen to curl the cherub smile hard by the spot 
where the Jlsmal bolts had fallen. 


THB BMDj 




STUDIES IN ENGUSH SPELLING. 


FIRST LESSON; 

A wealthy young man had a yacht, 
Disfigured with many a spacht, 
SAPOLIO he tried, 

Which, as soon as applied, 
Immediately took out the lacht! 

SECOND LESSON. 

Our girl o’er the housework would 
sigh, 

Till SAPOLIO I urged her to trigh, 
Now she changes her tune, 

For she’s done work at nune, 

Which accounts for the light in her 
eigh ! 

THIRD LESSON. 

There’s many a< domestic embroglio— 
To describe which would need quite 
a foglio, 

Might oft be prevented 
If the housewife consented 
To clean out the house with SA- 
POGLIO ! 


FOURTH LESSON. 

Maria’s poor fingers would ache, 
When the housework in hand she 
would tache, 

But her pains were allayed, 

When SAPOLIO’S aid, 

Her labor quite easy did mache \ 

FIFTH LESSON. 

We have heard of some marvelous 
soaps, 

Whose worth has exceeded our hoaps, 
But it must b© contest, 

That SAPOLIO’S the best 
For with grease spots it easily coaps! 

SIXTH LESSON. 

The wife of ?. popular colonel 
Whose troubles with “helps” were 
etolonel 

Now her leisure enjoys 
For the “ new girl ” employs 
SAPOLIO in housework diolonel! 


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